


Back to The Eighties

by finnwolfhard (piistachiiooss)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Jonathan Byers, Background Joyce Byers, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Confused Mike Wheeler, Depression, Emo Mike Wheeler, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mike Wheeler/Richie Tozier unrequited, Multi, Mutual Pining, Past Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, Richie Tozier Flirts, Sad Mike Wheeler, Sad Richie Tozier, Self-Indulgent, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Summer Romance, richie tozier/eddie kaspbrak (mentioned) - Freeform, smartphones, thank the gods, the one dustin/mike without smut, they're all like 14 btw, this is very depressing sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piistachiiooss/pseuds/finnwolfhard
Summary: (A story that started off as Text-based, but is now turning into a novel. Whoops)Welcome to BacktoThe80s.com! The only website out there that will take you back to the radical days of the 80's in this day and age! Well, besides a totally cool time machine, of course. ;) Everything will be edited to match the aesthetic! So...Are you ready to join the 80s family?Mike frowned, his lower lip already bleeding from his constant nervous nibbling. Scanning the screen, he tried desperately to ignore the constant chiming of his phone on the bed. Well... He did come this far.





	1. to love or to hate

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy! i actually started this on an app called wit(an app for k-pop), originally. but let's see how it works as a chapter book.  
> this will be, hopefully, a Dustin/Mike-centric story with a side plot including Richie and why he so suddenly moved to Hawkins. don't want to spoil anything. however, i am not responsible for anyone that gets triggered from reading this book. it will have suicidal themes and lots of depression mentions. if any of this bothers you, i recommend reading something else.  
> (do not be fooled. i am not and will never be an ARMY.)

_“Mike,” He met her gaze only briefly before returning it to the floor, his stomach continuing to twist and lurch. He was sure he looked stupid, the few strands of hair in his face, re-curling due to being exposed to water-his tears. He felt stupid-he felt disgusting. Sure, people could love who they wanted, but what would his family think? They had a reputation to uphold that could not-no, would not be ruined by one bad seed. By their confused and very gay son. Her thin and nimbly hand grasps his shoulder, forcing him to meet her gaze and it only made him feel worse, his frown deepening. And here he was pouring his heart out to his barely literate girlfriend whom he loved with all his heart. But not in the way he was supposed to._

_He was sure he loved her that way at one point but... Things had changed and he wasn’t sure why they had. Perhaps he was confused and bisexual. Either way, he was queer and she was going to break up with him, kick him to the curb and ditch him like yesterday’s cold pizza._

_“It’s okay. I understand.” Mike eyed her genuine smile for a moment, his eyes wide with confusion, disbelief, and fear, before sobbing. She pulls him into a hug, warm and comforting, her cheek pressed lovingly to the top of his skull._

_“You’re okay, Mike.”_

* * *

Mike glared at the home screen of his laptop, his lips pressed into a hard line. Google glared back at him with its bright colors and search suggestions. Beside him, his phone vibrated on the desk, sending crippling ripples through his confidence. It had vibrated five times in the last minute and though he knew there were more than just four people in his Party, it still freaked him out. Mike was freaked out easily. He was also angered easily. Heaving a sigh, he reached out for the wireless mouse that sat idle glaring holes back at him. His thin fingers curled around its aerodynamic form and he clicked on the search bar.

Around him, his room clashed with the year he was currently living in. Decorating the walls were the old posters for movies from the 80s. Movies he grew up watching with his older sister and a man from his childhood that he couldn’t quite remember. He was tall and lanky, a dark five o clock shadow shadowing his thin chin and high cheekbones. Under a clearly old bowler hat was curls that Mike found very familiar. This man appeared in a bunch of Mike’s memories, his smile wide and inviting, jokes loud and humiliating. Then one day he just... Disappeared. And with him walked out Mike’s memories and feelings of happiness.

The only way to remember him was to binge watch the movies of his past and coat his room from ceiling to floor in antiques. The Atari that Karen had gotten him for his 14th birthday, a model of the Deathstar from the original Star Wars movies. The Chuck Taylor’s that Mike continuously wore and replaced when they’d get too worn down. His way of dressing got him a lot of strange glares out in the street, especially when seen beside his family. His straightened hair, framing his face, brown eyes sunken in from lack of sleep. On his feet are a pair of old Adidas and a sweater sits layered on top of a thin button-up. He just looks out of place.

And sometimes he did feel out of place. His room and his way of dressing showed where time stopped moving on his side of the world. They marked the day when the tall man with the goofy gags and bright grin left his life. Leaving him with the ever-dull Ted and Karen Wheeler, who hardly cared whether or not their growing boy ate or not with their busy schedules. What with Holly and Ted’s work and all.

Mike was surrounded by friends but had never felt more _alone_.

Typing in the straightforward website address, Mike heaved a sigh as his phone began to vibrate against the desk again. Just outside his door, Mike can hear the Alexa chirp announcing the messages that he had been ignoring. He counted the seconds until-

“Michael!”

“ _I got it_!” He called back, scoffing to himself. Flipping his phone over, tapping the screen on. He input his pin without even looking at the screen as he waited for the website to load on his laptop. Sending a brief glare to the group chat, Mike made no effort for a welcoming reply.

MAXNOTMAXINE: yo, wheeler have you found the website yet?

lucas.sinc: i knew i shouldve done it

dustiinn.nougaatt: *should’ve

hotwheels: chill out. it’s loading.

The website in question was one that Mike hadn’t used since it was first introduced back in 2010. He remembered being obsessed with it, but at the time it was the lamest thing anyone could’ve ever used to contact their friends. It seemed, due to a recent ‘trend’, the 80s were suddenly back in and everyone was using the site. It made Mike’s blood boil how people’s likes and dislikes could change so violently with the ever crashing tides of medias top 10. But what could he do about it? He was one kid and millions of people enjoyed following trends.

Maybe he should be following trends as well. As an individual, he stood out quite a bit, and not in the best way.

weewillbyers: it’s okay, mike! take your time

hotwheels: thanks, will.

Mike’s attention was snatched away from the phone when _Never Gonna Give You Up_ , suddenly began to blare out of his speakers. His hands shook as he fumbled to low down the volume, his father already complaining about the noise in the next room. On the screen in bright highlighted letters was the timeless title of the website; BacktoThe80s.com. When Mike had used this site all those years ago, he remembered it was a fairly bland website, no sound, no videos. Just colorful text, a couple of pictures to decorate the background and one big chatroom to house the small group of 500 chatters. 500 all over the world, not just near you. The odds of finding another person who used it who also happened to live within 10 miles of your house was 0-1 and 6-year-old Mike cared very little about other people even back then.

Unless their names were Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, or Dustin Henderson, young Mike could care less who they were.

Now the website was upgraded to match the growth of technology and all that it stood for. There were links to 80’s playlists, music videos, and artist wikis. Gifs of Rick Astley dancing happily on one side of the screen to match the song that still played softly in the background. Various buttons that led to different parts of the site and even an option to make an account and build your own chatroom. As nervousness crept over him, the idea didn’t seem so great anymore.

It seemed so intimidating now, with all its links and buttons. Mike, though a geek through and through, had no love for technology. He hated phones, the concept of online homework angered him. Honestly, he hated electronics in general. No form of technology was safe under his watch; he’d ‘lost’ three phones in that month alone. Sure, it sounded nice to be able to have a chatroom for just him and his friends and he wouldn’t have to scroll messily through a large chat to find his’ friends’ texts towards him but to have to go through all this trouble...

His phone blinks again. He sighs.

lucas.sinc: come on mike it’s almost 8

lucas.sinc: you know how my parents get on school nights

jane.hopper: lucas is bored

dustiinn.nougaatt: lucas needs to clean up his texts. how is anyone supposed to read that??

lucas.sinc: i swear i hate you

dustiinn.nougaatt: i swear i have no idea how to read that.

hotwheels: i have to make a stupid account.

MAXNOTMAXINE: bummy website

Mike snorted, having to agree with Max’s _emotional_ statement on the site. Frowning, he knew he’d have to suck it up at one point so, with one short breath, he brought his gaze up to the introducing paragraph. It was typed in some weird font that was obviously pre-made to resemble the 90’s and Mike almost let himself gag. To mix the two era’s, he was irrationally insulted.

_Welcome to BacktoThe80s.com! The only thing in our day and age that can literally take you back to the radical days of the 80s! Well, besides a totally cool time machine, of course. If you happen to have one, ring me! Everything from the profile pictures you select to the images you send to your friends will be edited to match the aesthetic!_

Mike caught himself skimming the rest of the introduction, wanting to just get the whole thing over with. He mumbled lowly, scoffing at certain parts and chuckling at others. Despite being really corny, they had at least some kind of sense of humor. He was interrupted in his reading when light pours into his eternally dark room, his mom taking a step in and almost tripping over his skateboard. It was something that he had gotten from Max, she had taught him some things, but Mike insisted on being able to do it himself. Since then, he’s been too scared to look at it.

Stumbling to his feet, Mike cursed under his breath. Snatching the skateboard from the ground, he sent his mother a glance, motioning for her to say what she needed. He’s able to stuff it into his closet before she finally finds her words.

“Mike, why do you have the lights off-it is so dark in here!” Mike combed his hair back, snatching a couple articles of clothing off the floor before she could comment on them.

“I can see just fine.” He mumbled, throwing them to his laundry corner. She sighs from the door, moving to lean on the door frame.

“Well, do you at least want something to eat? All I’ve seen you eat is a sandwich and you didn’t even finish it-” Turning to look at his mom, Mike returned to his desk chair, his eyebrows already furrowed in aggravation.

“Mom. Seriously, I’m fine. I’m not really hungry.”

She purses her lips, watching him in silence. She takes in his hair that was curling up at the ends, the sweat from his face very clear to see under the bright lights of the hall. His eyes seemed dead, void of any sheen, bags beginning to form underneath them. She opened and closed her mouth, worry dripping off of her every move. Scoffing, Mike stands to walk her out of his room.

“ _Mom_ ,” Nodding, she takes a step back into the hall as Holly goes running by, stark nude and soap still clinging to her, screaming the whole way. Nancy can be seen running after her, soap coating the entire length of her arms and splattered on her shirt, a look of fear falling over her features. _Holly stop!_ To which Holly only replies, _Fun!_ Frowning, Mike realized he never had to ask for a pet all those times with a sister like that.

His mother catches his attention again as she smiles, reaching out and rubbing his cheek. “I love you, Mike.” Worry still dripped from her words, but the feeling only hid behind her eyes. Mike groaned, batting her hand away. Although it didn’t quite reach his eyes, his lips twitched up into a shy smile.

“Okay, mom, I get it.” She grins. “ _And?_ ”

“I love you, too-I guess. Can you go now?” Nodding brightly, she turns on her heels, jogging to catch up with her daughters. Her heels clicked on the hardwood rhythmically and again Mr. Ted Wheeler complained about the noise. _Nancy, keep her away from the windows-What would the neighbors think?_ Rolling his eyes, Mike shut his door, returning to his desk. He liked to believe they could care less about a naked 4-year-old running through their neighbor's house, but who was he to speak for them? On the other hand, who really watched someone’s house to make sure they didn’t make mistakes? He wouldn’t put it past _her_ to do it, but any other normal person, really.

Shaking his head, he returned his complete attention to the website. As he began to read again, Alexa’s chirp echoed in the hall. Mike was about ready to scream as he again counted the seconds. 1. 2. 3. 4...

“Michael!”

“ _I GOT IT!”_ He yelled back, snatching up his phone. Reading the time, he noted that it was now 8:30. He pulled up the group chat and frowned.

MAXNOTMAXINE: anyone notice that king of the geeks seems a little off lately?

lucas.sinc: its probably nothing

lucas.sinc: mike has his time of the moth as well

lucas.sinc: month*

dustiinn.nougaatt: why can’t you just read through your texts once or twice before sending them? i’m cringing over here.

jane.hopper: mike is okay. he just needs time

weewillbyers: yeah, mike’s probably just having problems with his family again yknow

hotwheels: i’m fine. school’s stressing me out and mom is worried about appearances again.

lucas.sinc: fuck appearances

_If only my mom felt that way too._ Mike quickly placed his phone down, his hands moving to rub the bags under his eyes like clockwork. He’d lost all hope in trying to hide them, Nancy’s stupid makeup never worked, green tea was disgusting, and he was not going to put cucumbers on his eyes like some middle-aged woman looking for an escape from her domestic life. It wasn’t like he always had them, they gradually grew after a rough patch in his life. And since then, every patch has seemed rough. He was a walking zombie, with an eternal cloak of cold November rain following him wherever he walked. Not even the presence of his friends seemed to ward off the feeling as their being around only reminded him of the countless secrets he was keeping from them. With them, the rain would stop but the large cloud remained. But eventually, everyone has to go home. And the rain returns.

Over time it’s grown from a soft rain to an ocean falling over his head whenever he tried to do anything. He hadn’t written a simple DnD campaign in months and he knew El and Max were excited to partake in the ritual no matter how much Max slandered it. But doing anything creative felt like a chore.

Mike gave up reading the crap. He threw his cursor to the Enter button, initially starting the Signing Up process.

_Hey, there, New User! Looking to join the BTTE Family?! Stellar! Before we let you go, though, there are just a few questions we have to ask you. What’s your gender identity?_

Mike was oddly comforted by the accepting wording of the question. Below it was a box to type in what you desired instead of the blasted, Male or Female that you found on every official paper. He was male, of course, and identified as such, but he thought he was a very open person when it came to genders and the identities that went along with it. His parents on the other hand? He clearly remembered one night where he’d overheard them debating on what Greg McCorkle’s parents did to him after he came out as Georgia.

Karen hoped they got him mental help and Ted hoped they disowned him. The very next day, Mike congratulated _Georgia_ for having the confidence to come out to her parents as he never would. She definitely looked happier. And it didn’t look like her parents threw her out so Mike left the conversation there.

_Hey! A fellow brother! We’ll be sure to use he/him pronouns when referring to you! When is your birthday?_

Mike quickly typed in his birthday, nibbling nervously at his lower lip. This was beginning to grow eerie for him, the website asked just a bit too many questions for his liking. It was just to make a chatroom, what did it need his _birthday_ for?

 _So you were born on March 27 in the year 2004?_ He clicks the yes button. _Rad! Now, what should we call you?_ His gaze fell onto his phone on the desk that had been quiet for a while. The section was for making his username, he gathered, but he wasn’t sure what the other’s would think if he chose to use his DnD position as his username. Grabbing his phone, he pulled up the group chat.

hotwheels: dustin, you’re creative, right?

dustiinn.nougaatt: i mean, i guess. what kind of question is that?

weewillbyers: if dustin refuses, i’ll gladly take over

dustiin.nougaatt: hey, hey, hey. you always take the creative jobs, i call this one.

weewillbyers: the offer still stands

lucas.sinc: don’t ask him for username help mike i stg

hotwheels: what should my username be? should we match or something?

MAXNOTMAXINE: he did it. he did the thing.

dustiinn.nougaatt: hotwheels not good enough for the 80s?

hotwheels: i was thinking since DnD was really popular during the 80s, we could go with our roles?

jane.hopper: i’m mage!

hotwheels: yeah, but your username would be something like... magejane or janethemage

dustiinn.nougaatt: that’s a good idea, what did you need me for?

hotwheels: to talk me out of it

lucas.sinc: talk him out of it dustin

MAXNOTMAXINE: yeahhh, i’m not using maxthezoomer

weewillbyers: or zoomermax, yknow

dustiinn.nougaatt: all in favor of dnd names?

jane.hopper: me!

lucas.sinc: pls stop

hotwheels: me, i guess, but i thought it would be weird..

weewillbyers: i’m here for the dnd names

MAXNOTMAXINE: if you can’t beat em, join em

lucas.sinc: i can’t believe i’m friends with you guys. you’re all mental

dustiinn.nougaatt: and i can’t believe you still aren’t grammar checking your texts. i guess we’re all confused.

Mike sighed, lifting his gaze from the phone, his eyes looking at everything but his laptop. He supposed he expected as much from Dustin, to accept the idea of using DnD roles as usernames. Dustin was the only person he knew that loved the 80’s as much as he did. Only, he wasn’t scared to openly tell people while Mike played his fashion off as a mistake. They had this stupid little ritual on the side called _Mike and Dustin’s Night Off_ as a homage to the movie _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_. On these nights they usually gorged on whatever they could find that really gave off the feel of the 80s. Jawbreakers, Orange Julius, Nerds. There was the occasional bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

After hours of begging, the boys could usually get Karen to begrudgingly make them a couple 80’s-esque meals like meatballs or sloppy joe’s. Activities included watching the original Dukes of Hazard, the Jetsons, and arguing about what they would’ve been like back in that era.

_“We’d be the most popular people at school, Mike, and you know it.” Dustin's voice called as Mike made his way down the stairs. In his arms was a large bowl of popcorn coated with what would be deemed a bit too much butter. Grimacing, Mike shook his head, sending Dustin an incredulous look._

_“You’re blind, Dustin. We’re losers now and we’d be losers then, and_ you _know it.” Rolling his eyes harshly, Dustin heaved a sigh. In his fist was a Three Musketeers bar, that he grumpily took a bite out of. “You’re so fucking pessimistic, I swear.” Mike settled into the couch, stuffing a handful of the popcorn into his mouth. On the small television set played the VHS edition of_ The Thing _. “I prefer to call it realistic.”_

_“Realistic. A buzz kill. Call it what you want, you still fucking suck.”_

When Mike’s attention had returned, he was on a screen that he was thankful to have finally reached. He supposed it wasn’t healthy to cut out of reality so often, but Mike hadn’t felt in control of his mind since he met El. He’d be glad when this was all over. His friends could stop texting him, he’d be tired enough to sleep until the next day and hopefully, he’d have enough energy to keep up a facade of halfway happy during school. On the screen were two boxes, one for his own email and the other for his friends’ emails. Or as read, _friend(s)_ as if he only had one.

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓

michael.wheeler@hawkinsmiddle.org

┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛

┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓

william.byers@hawkinsmiddle.org

jane.hopper@hawkinsmiddle.org

dustin.henderson@hawkinsmiddle.org

lucas.sinclair@hawkinsmiddle.org

maxine.mayfield@hawkinsmiddle.org

┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛

_Thanks for choosing BacktoTheEighties.com for your chatting needs, Broham! We really appreciate having you join the family and hope you enjoy your stay! Remember to visit us on our Twitter and Instagram with any suggestions and questions; @eatourshortsbtte. We’ll email you with any updates we make to the site!_

_Until next time, here is the link you can use to gain access to your chatroom. BacktoThe80s.com/paladinmikeisrad. Have a couple friends you forgot to invite? No problem! As long as they have an account and you send them the link, they have full access to the chatroom, with your permission, of course._

_We’ll send a complimentary email with the specified link to the friend(s) you invited! A short reminder that BacktoThe80s.com works on any platform except gaming consoles!_

_Stay Chill!_

Mike heaved a sigh, shutting his laptop.

“Is it too late to hate the 80’s?”


	2. summer sucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are introduced to a new character and he snakes his way into other's hearts.  
> i love him

Everyone loved Summer. Summer was beautiful, it was warm and there were more opportunities to leave your house.

Mike, on the other hand, hated Summer. It wasn’t warm; it was hot, way too hot, in fact. Ice Cream never stayed solid under the harsh rays of the sun, your house not even proving as a layer of protection. His mother always expected him to hang out with his friends, to _live a little_ and make memories. _Your childhood won’t last forever!_ She’d cry, throwing another batch of cookies into the oven. He knew the real reason she wanted him out was so she could read her stupid Adult Romance Novels and re-watch all three movies of the Fifty Shades series. She likes to think of it as a secret and Mike is never in any mood to tell her otherwise. So he lets himself be kicked out of the house without so much of a goodbye or a packed lunch.

And he’d retreat to the comfortable hovel of his friends. _Making every moment count_ (another one of her signature sayings) was actually quite hard when he and all of his friends hated leaving the house unless it was to go to the arcade. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. Mike and the friends out of his group that he actually liked to spend time with all really liked the indoors. That list usually included; Jane, Will, and Dustin. Lucas and Max were... Well, they were tolerable. They were a part of the party. And that made them his best friends, right?

Wrong.

Sounds odd, right? For the strong bond of two boys who had known each other since basically, they were babies, to crumble and fall because one of them was _jealous of a girl_. Sure, they were already always fighting at every given time, forcing Will and Dustin to try and find a middle ground, but at the end of the day; Lucas was still his best friend. And somewhere at the back of his head, Mike knew his relationship with Lucas would whittle and chip; that didn’t mean he wouldn’t force it to stay intact for as long as he could though.

The end of the Mike and Lucas dynamic was brought about faster by the accidental meeting with Eleven that night three years before. The growing crack between the two of them was completely out of his control and that drove him _insane_. Mike represented each of his friendships as a piece of rope being held by the two parties. Each battle would slice at the rope, but they get past them and help to rebuild the rope. Lucas pulled away first, pulling out a knife himself and hacking at the rope until silence. He apologized to Jane and Mike hoped that was the end.

Their relationship now dangles weakly by the single thread that Mike nurtures. That he hopes, someday, Lucas will help him nurture.

Summer was the worst season compared to the other four. Winter was cold, but there were gifts. Spring was a mess, but it was comfortable. Fall was aggravating with the cold brushes of air and the unpredictable weather but it marked the beginning of school. Summer marked the _end_. The concept of going to School wasn’t what he was missing specifically, no, it was the people. And this Summer seemed to be the Summer to trump all others; he’d be heading into high school. It was an unhealthy thought process, but Mike sometimes wished that he could just lie down in his bed and _sleep everything away_. It wouldn’t stop him from aging, it certainly wouldn’t stop Lucas from drifting away, and it wouldn’t cure his bisexuality, but it would put his soul at peace and that was all he ever wished for. Peace.

He sometimes wondered if he was asking too much. He’d begun to pray to a God he never believed in and in return, he only received more strikes of unluckiness. If that God was supposed to be so great; if he was supposed to love him so much and care for him and be his _father_. Then why did he let this happen to him? Or maybe... Mike was just overreacting. As usual.

Ain’t that a kick in the nuts?

Classes were slow that day, each teacher droning on and on about the coming Summer and the wonders that the world would bestow upon them when they left Hawkins Middle. Mike couldn’t help but feel betrayed by the adults that had promised to grant him knowledge and the joy that came along with it. All he seemed to get from it was anger, sadness, and broken promises. So as each teacher screamed happily, _Have a great Summer!_ , he gagged, his eyes growing dryer with each second that passed. The only emotion he had felt, that entire day came in response to the soft mutter of Mr. Clarke telling the Party how much he’d miss them and how badly he wished he could follow them into the next grade. The sincerity in the older man’s voice and the terribly obvious tears that pooled in his eyes as he turned to look at Mike only made the freckled geek want to throw himself out the nearest window.

 _“Take good care of them.”_ He had muttered to Mike, grinning proudly. He was referring to the Party, his gaze halting on each of their faces before he let them leave the classroom for Lunch. That was when the floodgates broke, Mike sniffling sloppily as he leads the group down the hall. He could practically feel the disgusted glances he was receiving from Lucas and Max, the feeling like flames from a campfire drilling into the entirety of his back. His soft sniffling slowly builds into pitiful sobbing, hiccuping when Will took a step forward, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He prided himself on his self-control but it seemed to grow weak during the recent weeks.

He wasn’t about to let himself be comforted, oh no. Mike, just turned 14, Wheeler was going to gather himself in the bathroom like the responsible teen he was. He issued an immediate retreat before Jane could lecture him on being okay and not having anything wrong with him. Before Will could tell him that it was perfectly okay for a 14-year-old boy to cry because he’d miss his 8th grade Science Teacher. Before Dustin could laugh and crack a joke about Mike being a pretty big crybaby but being the best Paladin they’d get this side of Indiana.

He ran.

He took the longest route to the farthest bathroom from the cafeteria. To hide. To avoid. To reflect. He appreciated the hard gusts of air that struck his eyes with each heavy step that he took towards the eastern side of the building. They dried the tears that trickled down his cheeks and prevented from anymore being made. He only wished it could have told him, whispered softly into his ear a small warning, that he’d be stupid enough to run into another person on the way to the linoleum sanctuary.

The kid seemed to be pretty roughed up, not from the clash with Mike the Ferocious, but from a beating, it seemed. His glasses were broken, one leg bent at an odd angle as it sat crooked on the bridge of a very familiar nose. His eyes, blinking owlishly (or as owlishly as they possibly could without causing too much pain) behind the coke bottle lenses, were both rimmed black, still swelling from their past pounding and Mike didn’t try to hide his wince. How that kid got _two_ black eyes was beyond him and he immediately realized that neither of them was looking where they were going. For two very different reasons.

Pushing away his pride, Mike was glad the kid couldn’t see him, he was sure he looked terrible and with the way Glasses spoke, he was sure he wouldn’t react well to them looking... Well, there were very few differences.

“What the fuck was that for?!” He squints at Mike’s figure in front of him before continuing. “I swear to god if that’s you, Dick-for-brains, I’ll-” Mike cleared his throat, stumbling shakily to his feet.

“We’ve never mEt,” Mike cleared his throat again, quietly, his voice cracking from the strain of sobbing. “I-I don’t think...” Glasses is silent for a bit, still blinking violently on the ground. Shifting, he holds himself up with his arms. Mike knew that he couldn’t see a damn thing, but that knowledge did nothing to relieve him of the intense stare he was receiving. Glasses gave a crooked grin before reaching out.

“Nice to meet you. Your voice sounds like shit and I bet I look like shit.” Grabbing his hand, Mike pulls him up from the ground, inwardly groaning when he realizes they’re about the same height, as well. “And if I had to guess, you are _feeling_ just as shitty as I am,” He pauses, twisting to find Mike’s form before his grin returns.

“Sam.” Mike snorts at the rhyme. “Mike.” Turning in Mike’s direction, his hands slide into the pockets of his very tacky white shorts.

“Richie Tozier, at your service.”

* * *

“You play football, Hotwheels?” Mike frowns glaring at the kid beside him before sighing in defeat, knowing the kid couldn’t see his glare. They had found their way to the bathroom, Mike leading the way the entire time and Richie filling the air with inappropriate comments and jokes. Mostly all revolving around Mike’s mother or some guy that he kept referring to as Dick-for-Brains. Mike had an idea who it could be if the person caused this much damage to Richie, but he was under oath (with himself) to never say that person’s name aloud.

His phone chimes in his pocket and he pulls it out to reveal a text from Will. As if like clockwork, the bell rings right after and neither Richie nor Mike move. Taking a deep breath, Mike placed his phone screen down on the cold bathroom floor.

“No. I hate sports.” Richie hums in thought before turning his head in Mike’s direction. “Me neither, but you got a fucking _mean_ tackle. Maybe Hawkins would actually win a game if you played-” Mike failed to hold in his chuckle as he shoved Richie softly. Richie winced, the shove reminding him of his bruised ribs before snickering himself. He pulls on a shit-eating grin despite being so swollen and beaten up that he simply seemed to be grinning at Mike. Outside the bathroom, the loud cheer of footsteps and children conversing fills the air, all traveling to their next classes.

“I thought I’d never get you to laugh! And that wasn’t even a joke!” Mike smiled softly, sighing out of his nose. “Well, your jokes are kind of shit so,” Scoffing, Richie lies an offended hand on his chest.

“Michael, you wound me. _Thoroughly_.” Mike hums taking in Richie’s horrid attempt at a posh accent. Nodding, he was sure he knew what kind of person Richie was. The well-known and hated twin brother to the Class Clown, the Class Loser.

“Accents, too, huh?” Richie grins. “Yeah. It’s kinda my thing.” Mike sends him a glance before shifting.

“I think you need to find a new thing-” Richie wails, falling dramatically onto Mike, gaining a tired grunt from the other. Pushing him off, Mike dusts off his shoulder.

“Spend another moment lying on me and the ugly flowers from your shirt might transfer to mine-Like a disease.” Richie shrugs, turning to Mike, his face suddenly quite serious. “Well, your mother really likes my diseases, Mike-”

“Oh, shut up.” Silence falls between the duo, Richie letting out a very child-like yawn. Mike wasn’t surprised, though. Since the moment, they met, Richie hasn’t stopped talking, spitting out anything that came to mind whether it was a quote, un-quote _joke_ or just an observation on Mike’s grip. _Wow-za, Mike, you touch your mother with these hands?_ Mike lets his head fall back to rest on the wall under the sink as he feels a weight fall onto his shoulder. Humming softly, Mike let his own eyes fall shut before addressing the loser on his shoulder.

“You comfortable?” Mike questioned, bluntly. Richie’s laugh was light and airy in the now quiet air. Mike can feel him nod before nodding himself. It’s a long moment before Richie speaks again, his voice at a whisper.

“I have no idea what the fuck you look like, Mike, but for some reason...” Stopping short, he seems to freeze, staring at the stall directly ahead of him. Not but a second later, he shakes his head, moving to remove his glasses. Mike waits for him to continue, but is freaked out to find that he says nothing at all. Only folding up his glasses, placing them on Mike’s lap and returning his head to its comfortable placement on his shoulder. Letting his eyes fall open, Mike glared at the air, the ceiling, and anything in between, frowning at the missing final part of Richie’s sentence.

“Rich-you don’t mind if I call you that, right? Rich?” Richie hums in reply. Mike could feel his swollen cheeks rise into a smile through his sleeve as he muttered, “I’d rather you call me daddy,” He shifts. “But Rich is fine, too.” Nodding, Mike manages a shy grin.

“Cool-Yeah, okay.” Was making a new friend supposed to give you a rush? Perhaps, he'd just spent too long out of the friend-making game. It probably also didn’t help that Richie’s personality was something entirely different to what Mike was used to. He wasn’t sure what else to do but to ramble on about pointless shit. Thankfully, Richie didn’t seem to mind as he answered almost all of Mike’s questions. All except for the chosen few that included Richie’s past; friends or family. Even fears seemed to be a tough topic for him to talk about. Eventually, Richie’s voice stopped replying and Mike only realized halfway through a heated story-telling of his first fight with Lucas when soft snores filled the washroom, echoing off the far wall and bouncing back into his ears.

Mike could put people to sleep by talking about his life. Who knew?

He let his tense form loosen as to not wake Richie up in fear of abusing the new friendship he’d just started. It was a thin rope, but a rope nonetheless, that Mike would nurture. For a while, he sat in the silent comfort of the abandoned bathroom, this area of the building only being used by staff or the occasional rat. Richie’s snores were soothing enough that Mike found himself drifting off, much to his dismay. He never liked sleeping on the floors, especially not on school floors, but here he was. Falling quickly to sleep with a kid he’d met not more than an hour before. On the dirty floor of the bathroom on the Eastern Wing of Hawkins Middle School.

He supposed it could be worse though. They could have been found like that. Two teenage boys sleeping in what would be considered an intimate position by any number of people; students, the janitor, or a teacher who got lost on the way to the teacher’s lounge.

When he had woken up, he was sure it had been quite some time, as his shoulder was free of the weight of Richie's head. Shooting up, he looked for the strange kid that looked an awful lot like him but sadly couldn’t find him anywhere. The stalls were all empty and the halls outside were silent. Sneaking a glance at his phone, he finds 5 missed calls and 25 text messages. And he notes that school had been out for three hours.

He was about ready to chalk Richie down as just a character he’d created in his stupor of sadness if it wasn’t for the small piece of paper that had fallen from his head when he dropped his gaze to scan his phone. It was old notebook paper, the handwriting scrawled and messy. It was exactly what Mike would imagine Richie’s handwriting would look like; a mess of swirls and dips and little holes where his pencil stabbed through the paper. Though it was a tad bit illegible, some words overlapping others, he figured it was because he was still partially blind. It wasn’t a short message, but straight-forward enough that Mike knew he hadn’t made up the kid he’d bumped into.

_Hey, Wheeler! When you find this, I’ll be long gone and school will be dismissed for Summer. You sleep like a fucking rock, do you even sleep at night? At least you don’t drool, cuz then we’d have problems. I took the liberty of putting my phone number into your phone. No need to thank me, after hearing you talk about your insecurities for a while, I came to the conclusion that your dumb ass would think I’m some figment of your imagination if I didn’t leave something. While I am flattered, that just ain’t how this works. My eyes are still swollen shut, though, so don't worry about me seeing you all sleepy and disgusting. I'll find some way home. Anyway, happy last day of school ig. Thanks for putting up with me for a couple hours. Your dear pal, Richie_

Mike found himself reading the note three more times before dusting himself off from the stiff nap. He collected his phone, folded the note delicately and placed them both in his back pocket. He was going to get so much shit from his parents from getting home so late, but there were so many worse things that he could be walking himself into. He could be walking right into an argument between his parents, the third one that month. Or he could step into a heated make-out session between Steve and Jonathan, which he wished he'd never have to see-ever. God bless Will’s soul.

He trudged into the entrance hall of his house, shutting the door silently after himself. His backpack sat on the floor by the shoes no one bothered to use, settling into the spot. As he searched his bag for tampering, hushed whispering wafted from the adjacent dining room. As he had predicted, his mother’s heels click quickly and rhythmically to the area. He meets her gaze, as she stands before him, hands on her hips and an angered pout on her lips.

“You’re grounded.” Mike’s eyes widen as he stares at her in disbelief. “What?! Mom! It was an accident-”

“An accident that lasted 3 hours and had me calling poor Mr. Hopper to look for you!” Mike sighed through his nose, resorting to glaring angrily at the wall behind her. “You should know better-Why would you embarrass me like that? Even the neighbors were asking where you were!” She complained, waving a hand in the vague direction of the neighbors. Slipping off his sneakers, he sent her a stiff smile before dropping them beside his bag. He chooses not to answer, stepping around her and taking the first step to his room-

“Michael Anthony Wheeler, you stop right there.” It’s like a curse that every child has. To be called using every part of their name immediately instilled complete obedience. Sometimes he wondered if it actually was a spell that all mothers were in on. Mike does as he’s told, stopping on that single step. He can feel himself growing impatient, the soft comfort of his bed beckoning to him. _If he was going to be grounded, at least let him act grounded._ He shifted uncomfortably before turning to her, the same look of aggravation on his features.

“Two weeks.” Mike gasped, glaring at her. “Just for coming home three hours late?!” She nods, crossing her arms.

“You did _nothing_ to inform us of where you were, Michael.” The full pronunciation of his name sent disgusted chills down his back. Rolling his eyes, Mike crossed his arms. _I mean I was fucking passed out in the school bathroom._ He grumpily told her through his mind. Stomping back down off the one step he managed, he made a loop around the staircase, grabbing the doorway of the basement. “Michael, what do you think you’re-”

“It’s _**Mike,**_ ” He yells as he slams the door shut. Taking in a shaky breath, Mike sat heavily at the door, his back pressed against it as if to hold off anyone who tried to come in. His chest felt hollow and next thing he knew, his eyes were blurred by the pools of tears he refused to release. He never knew where the tears came from but he could at least pretend he knew why he was crying. Folding his hands, he placed them between his thighs, the nails of one digging into the skin of the other. His head swam with the usual thoughts that filled his mind on a day like this, the severity tripled only by the burden that was Summer break.

He used one hand to rake his hair back as he eyed the soft carpet below. He wasn’t going to leave the basement if he could help it. Not for the rest of the night, at least. Standing to his feet, he twisted around to lock the door. Running down the steps and to the second exit, he locked that door as well. It was times like these where he was thankful he hid El in his basement for a week, as he crawled into the fort he hadn’t touched in what felt like years. Pulling his phone out of his back pocket, he pulled it up to his face, pulling up the messenger.

**11:46**

_dustiinn.nougaatt: mike, lunch ended and classes are starting. will already sent you a text like this but you didn’t answer, so he asked me to send another one._

**12:32**

_dustiinn.nougaatt: mike??_

**12:55**

_dustiinn.nougaatt: you fucking asshole, i swear if you fell into a ditch somewhere, i’m going to kill you_

**2:00**

_dustiinn.nougaatt: uh, mike?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: i know that you’re alive now, but now i’m just confused. who was that kid you were sleeping in the bathroom with?_

**2:43**

_dustiinn.nougaatt: oh come on, how long are you going to sleep?_

**5:01**

_hotwheels: he was no one_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: he speaks!! thank god; secondhand ghosting me._

_hotwheels: sorry, I only just got home. i’m grounded._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: i’m not fucking surprised. what the hell were you thinking_? _skipping all those classes and then falling asleep in a b a t h r o o m?_

_hotwheels: how do you know about that?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: oh, yeah. you probably haven’t looked through all your messages yet._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: apparently james found you and your mystery twin sleeping in the bathroom in the Eastern Wing and took a blackmail picture._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: well, less blackmail and more just embarrassing. he sent it to everyone in the school._

Mike squeezed his eyes shut, heaving a sigh. Of fucking course, James had found them. How could Mike forget that asshole smoked in that bathroom?

_hotwheels: i was just keeping that kid company, i don’t see why it’s such a big deal._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: well, does this mystery kid have a name? do you know if you guys are related?_

_hotwheels: richie_ _tozier. i don’t know._

_hotwheels: you think he looks like me?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: he looks like you sPiT hIm OuT, mike. and he actually accepted the natural unkempt curls that you try so hard to hide._

_hotwheels: shut up._

Mike swiped out of the conversation, pulling up his contacts. He searched through a bit before his eyes hit the obvious contact name of Richie. _nEw bEstie_ , it read with a little heart emoji. Mike would never in his right mind ever refer to someone like that, especially in his contacts, but he supposed it was just how Richie was. Clicking back into his conversation with Dustin, he breathed a calming sigh.

_hotwheels: you want to meet him?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: you two are friends? do you have his number or something?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: this is the cutest thing I have ever been invited to witness._

_hotwheels: dude, stop._

Mike quickly added Richie to the conversation, and the group grew silent. Mike stared in silent confusion before angrily typing,

_hotwheels: rich, it’s mike_

_nEw bEstie: well, that explains it! i thought i_ _was being added to one of those random group chats filled with middle-aged spanish women again_

_hotwheels: that would happen to someone like you. did you get home okay?_

_nEw bEstie: don't worry about me, Romeo, i got home just fine._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: so this is richie?_

_nEw bEstie: depends. who’s askin?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: dustin_ _henderson, compass master and an overall loser._

_nEw bEstie: do my eyes deceive? a fellow loser?_

_nEw bEstie: nice to meet ya, Dusty_

_nEw bEstie: I’m Richie Tozier, but friends usually just call me Trashmouth_

_hotwheels: makes sense._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: god, don’t call me that._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: only my parents call me dusty_

_nEw bEstie: well, then I guess it’s a good thing your mom already calls me daddy, huh_

_hotwheels: dammit, richie! I invite you to meet one friend and you do this._

_nEw bEstie: in my defense, he walked right into it_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: i can’t tell if that was smooth, creepy, or hilarious._

_nEw bEstie: I like to say I’m all three of those things_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: noted._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: i’m screenshotting this shit_

_nEw bEstie: I’m glad I could bring some sense of_

_nEw bEstie: entertainment to the conversation_

Mike felt himself drifting off again, his vision very blurry as he now simply watched the conversation between Dustin and Richie. They seemed to be getting along well and he was much too exhausted from the loaded day that he just had. While it was only 5 in the afternoon, Mike always found himself sleeping. He just never had the energy anymore. So he let himself fall asleep under the protective air of the fort, his phone chiming with each new message beside him. He descended into REM quite quickly, his dreams void of any meaning while his friends planned without him.

_dustiinn.nougaatt: hey, you got plans on Friday, four-eyes?_

_nEw bEstie: asking me on a date already, Dustin?_

_nEw bEstie: i’m flattered, but my heart only beats for one person_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: you only just met him today, you slime_

_nEw bEstie: it’s not a phase, Dustin, i l o v e h I m_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: yeah, okay._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: a n y w a y s_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: it’s not a date, it’s a ritual. and mike will be there anyway._

_nEw bEstie: i get to spend time with my two favorite boys? count me in!_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: you only just met us TODAY_

_nEw bEstie: I love you both with all of my fucking being, Dustin. accept my love_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: the only thing is, you gotta like the 80s._

_nEw bEstie: shit, it’s like an 80s party or something?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: or something_

_nEw bEstie: where’s it gonna be, I know a lot about the 80s from my pops_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: it’s a secret and we meet every Friday or Saturday at Mike’s house._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: when we meet usually depends on our DnD schedule._

_nEw bEstie: wow, you guys really are losers._

_nEw bEstie: i’ll be there. you mind sending me the address, nougatbrain?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: yeah, sure. i gotta go though, i’m real fucking tired._

_dustiinn.nougaatt: night, richie_

_nEw bEstie: don’t let the bedbugs bite, dustie_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: ew_

_nEw bEstie: and mike can be mikie._

_nEw bEstie: mikie, dustie, and richie_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: you’re strange. but i've seen stranger things, i guess._

_nEw bEstie: really?_

_dustiinn.nougaatt: sadly_


	3. vulnerability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.
> 
> || rich turns to the one person he trusts in this godforsaken town.

_**BANG BANG BANG** _

Mike stirred slightly, his leg extending and kicking one of the chairs helping to hold the fort up. It shifts out of place and the corner of the blanket dropped down and hid his lower half from view, his form falling back into slumber. But the noise echoes again, louder than before, if it was possible, and scared him awake. He gasped like it was last breath he’d ever take, his eyes darting around like a wild animal. Like the frightened teen he was, he snatched up his phone, clutching it to his chest, his chest pounding against his fist. He cringed into the far corner of the fort, hoping it’d provide more protection. It was silent for a while, the only sounds being his heart beating in his ears and the heavy breaths that exited him in clumsy cycles. He’d almost let his guard down, swallowing thickly, convinced he’d imagined the noise. Then a voice called out to him. One that he could only describe as shrill and nagging.

“MIKE! Honestly, what are you even doing down there?!” Mike heaved a sigh. Well, at least she cared enough to call him _Mike_.

Nancy Wheeler, the seemingly perfect child of the Wheeler family. Well, out of the two of them. He knew that if his mother had to choose between saving Holly or saving Nancy and Mike, she’d choose Holly in a heartbeat. Despite what you may think, being pawned off by his mother was the least of his worries and he could care less if his younger sister was better company than him. Ms. Karen Wheeler used textbook, word for word, rich parent parenting and he was sick of having to deal with it. Couldn’t she ever really, like truly... _Care_ for her kids? As Mike crawled out from within the fort, fixing the chair to its original placement and fixing the draping blanket, he recalled the many times his mother mildly tried to relate to him. She never said it out loud, but he knew she found it hard. He was too different from them. She found it hard to relate to him as he was a boy and he wasn’t exactly...

He was a nerd. He was never popular. And most of all, he tried his very best to care little about appearances. Keyword; _tried_. Anxiety made that kinda hard. He just wasn’t bred for the rich kid, son of the CEO lifestyle.

He liked sitting around and playing video games. He liked watching movies, whether they were old or not, it never really mattered to him as all movies fascinated him. Despite avoiding people to no end and all the sarcastic remarks he muttered, he actually liked social interaction. He liked meeting new people and trying to figure out what makes them tick as they go over the events of their day. His intentions after knowing what made them tick was always a surprise for both him and the other person. School was annoying and long and boring, but studying interested him. Learning by himself or with a small group was so much easier than listening to a teacher drone on for hours. He brought up online school, but his father shot him down. Ted always shot him down...

Nancy bangs again on the door and Mike whips a stray shoe up at it, grunting in frustration. He can hear her gasp in surprise from where he stood, the reaction pulling a small smile onto his face. As soon as it was there, it was gone and he was climbing the steps to collect the shoe. Lifting it into his hands, he threw it back down the stairs, it bouncing out of sight. Once he had a grasp on the knob, he unlocked the door with his opposite hand. Pulling it open, he’s dragged into a harsh stare-off with Nancy, her face bright with embarrassment. He crosses his arms across his chest, a firm frown forming on his face.

“Yes?”

“What-Why were you locked in the _basement_ , Mike?” He shifts to glance at the steps behind him before brushing past his sister. He makes his way to the stairs, without giving her so much as a backward glance. “I live there now.” He said simply, climbing the steps. Jogging to keep up, Nancy gives him an incredulous look. She stumbles up a couple of the stairs, muttering a swear before catching him before he enters the bathroom.

“You can’t live in the basement, Mike.” He snorts as she gestures to his room. “Who would live in your room?” Shrugging softly, Mike gave a crooked grin, the expression of playfulness not reaching his cold irises.

“I’ll rent it out-It’ll help me make money.” Nancy’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

“Rent it out to _who_?” Sending a glance to the staircase, he hummed in faux thought. “I dunno. Maybe Hobo Joe from the other side of the cul-de-sac wants it.” Nancy’s face seems to contort further, an angry pout forming on her lips. Pushing open the bathroom door, Mike continued. “So he can be in the same house as ‘ _My oh so dawlin sista, Nancy_ -” Stomping her foot, Nancy made a squeal of annoyance. Spinning on her heel, she walked hastily to her room.

“You’re such an asshole, Mike!” She called over her shoulder, slamming the door closed. Dropping the facade, Mike let the shit-eating grin fall from his face. His attention fell onto the day ahead as he got ready. His shower was quick and cold, the water frigid against his skin. He supposed Holly had already taken her bath, as her baths always used up all the hot water. Not that it really made a difference, he couldn’t feel much either way. The more numb, the better. He even went as far as to wash his hair and brush his teeth under the constant freezing water just to spend one more conscious moment in the shower. He took his time climbing out, his gaze stuck on the wall ahead of him. Eventually, he returned to reality, sitting on the edge of the toilet.

**4:30 PM**

Using his mother’s brush, he forced the curls out of his hair, making completely sure that there were none left aside from the usual soft curl at the base of his neck. By the time he had finished, he was completely dry, the house coming alive with the sound of Ted Wheeler’s daily rambles. They usually revolved around who did what at his job and why it annoyed the hell out of him. He was a simple-minded man. Mike moved quickly, exiting the bathroom and entering his room before his father’s footsteps could reach the second floor. Shutting the door, he flipped on the lights.

He decided to dress simply in a pair of pajamas, not having anything to do on the first day of Summer. Nowhere to go, not that he could go anywhere. So he settled with the next best thing;

 _WelcomeToThe80s.com!_ Flashed across the screen as he typed in his log in info. The website greeted him happily and he found that his chatroom was already alive with chatter. According to the estimate, there were already 26 messages. He couldn’t say that he was surprised that they used the website without him. Swallowing heavily, he clicked into the group chat.

ranger.lucas: this is fucking rediculous! wht are we supposed to do? wait for him to be ungrounded???

dustin.the.bard: that’s not a word.

thez00mer: would he really mind if we all just went to the arcade without him?

cleric.will: we can’t go without mike! i say we wait

ranger.lucas: fuck that. it’s the FIURST DAY OF SUMNMER

dustin.the.bard: oh my god

dustin.the.bard: i understand you’re upset, but at least type slowly.

mage.jane: celebrate without mike..?

thez00mer: we might have to.

cleric.will: i’m not going out and having fun if mike’s all couped up.

mage.jane: me neither!

ranger.lucas: fine

ranger.lucas: were leaving you two too

dustin.the.bard: pfft “two too”

dustin.the.bard: no one’s leaving anyone

cleric.will: yeah, lucas we’re the party, we stick together!

thez00mer: they have a point

thez00mer: it’d be kinda boring if we didn’t all go together

ranger.lucas: max you can’t be serious

thez00mer: i’m serious, stalker. i’d be less surprised if you all left me behind

ranger.lucas: i wouldnt let that happen

thez00mer: i know

thez00mer: and even though Mike can be an asshole sometimes, he wouldn’t either

thez00mer: so I’m returning the favor

ranger.lucas: mike only likes you as far ashe can chuck you!

cleric.will: lucas this may surprise you, but mike and max exchange novels sometimes.

ranger.lucas what the fuck???

_paladin.mike has joined the chat! Oh, captain, my captain!_

dustin.the.bard: i love this website. speak of the devil and he shall appear

dustin.the.bard: hey, Mike!

cleric.will: o cApTaIn mY cApTaIn

mage.jane: hi mike!

thez00mer: ah, he’s emerged from the dank caves of nerd solitude.

thez00mer: mike look, i used my stupid DnD role

paladin.mike: what’s with the zeros?

thez00mer: aesthetic

mage.jane: a e s t h e t i c

ranger.lucas: did you just wake up or something?

paladin.mike: not technically

cleric.will: mike likes to take an extra 20 minutes-an hour on his appearance

the z00mer: wtf why???

dustin.the.bard: aesthetic

cleric.will: a e s t h e t i c

ranger.lucas: so he woke up an hour ago

mage.jane: no

ranger.lucas: ??

paladin.mike: i took an hour-long shower, brushed my teeth, and washed my hair.

paladin.mike: these things take time

ranger.lucas: youre fucking weird.

paladin.mike: so are you

dustin.the.bard: why do you think he won best looking in the yearbook, lucas?

cleric.will: chalk up a cool point for the entire party

thez00mer: correction; the yearbook said great face, worst style

cleric.will: oof

dustin.the.bard: oh, well.

ranger.lucas: did you see the picture they used?

ranger.lucas: i wAS D E A D

paladin.mike: okay, that’s enough. we don’t need to talk about it

ranger.lucas: the 80s called, theywant their clothes bACK

thez00mer: oh mygod

paladin.mike: okay, lucas.

paladin.mike: i get it.

cleric.will: yeah, cut him some slack at least he makes it look nice!

ranger.lucas: he lOOKS like my grandpa he was 12 what are you sayingh???

dustin.the.bard: yikes.

dustin.the.bard: the typos, i swear to grognak.

ranger.lucas: nvjdsunvjdskbvkjdshjivdls

ranger.lucas: if you don’t likw my typos you can go

mage.jane: mike’s style is an aesthetic!

thez00mer: i can get behind that, sure.

ranger.lucas: “i wear your granddad’s clothes”

thez00mer: i c a n t

paladin.mike: for fuck’s sake, lucas

paladin.mike: can't you find some other way to entertain yourself??

paladin.mike: get off my back!

thez00mer: ooh okay, time to chill out, lucas

ranger.lucas: i would but your dumb ass got grounded!

ranger.lucas: way to ruin the first day of summer grandpa

cleric.will: lucas. seriously?

paladin.mike: summer’s overrated, who the fuck cares?

ranger.lucas: you’re overrated

cleric.will: lucas!

ranger.lucas: can it mushroom

cleric.will: mushroom??

dustin.the.bard: your hair. it’s shaped like a mushroom.

dustin.the.bard: you used to be The Baby Mushroom.

cleric.will: no it doesn’t!

cleric.will: no I wasn’t!

mage.jane: william mushroom byers.

dustin.the.bard: yeah and now you’re a goddamn mushroom tree. i come from a history of short people, do you mind stopping?

paladin.mike: will, you’re hair looks fine. it’s nice.

ranger.lucas: its almost as outdated as your style hotwheels

ranger.lucas: and what was with that randomkid you were sleeping with in the bathroom???

ranger.lucas: buddy holly much? you have a twin brother we don’t know about or is that like a weird fetish?

thez00mer: lucas. that’s not funny.

ranger.lucas: oh come on! it's kinda funny it's just a joke

mage.jane: what is a fetish?

cleric.will: ohmyholyshiitakemushrooms

dustin.the.bard: step right up to read the closest will has ever gotten to swearing. shiitake mushrooms, everyone

Mike turned away from the screen of his laptop, his skin burning from the base of his neck to the soft area under his eyes. He took a shaky breath before letting his eyes fall shut. Mike resorted to the short method his therapist had given him; slowly in through his nose and deeply exhale through the mouth. But each time he tried, he remembered Lucas’s typed words, stinging and fueling the fire that constantly burned within him. His anger.

His therapist was convinced that Mike had a very bad case of anger issues, but Mike believed it was the stupidity of the people around him just pushing him a bit too far over the edge. He tried to breathe. In through the nose-

_Are you dating some guy that looks like you? Is that your fetish? To date yourself?_

Huffing an agitated growl, Mike rose from his chair. His mind created longer phrases from Luke’s simple question, pounding into his fire like gasoline. He ran his hands along the pockets of his pants, stepping around his bed as he tried desperately to remind himself that it was _just a joke_. He settled into the cushioned mattress, grabbing his sheet and clutching it between his hands. His fingers danced along the seam, knee bouncing anxiously as he glared holes through his bedroom door. Once through the nose-

_That wouldn’t make any sense though, would it? You’re not date-able. Not with style like that. How old are you again?_

His hands closed into fists around the sheet, knuckles white from the force and his jaw locked. Rooted and firm in place. He could feel his molars grinding, but right now he just had to stop himself before he blew up. The fire lapped at the base of his chest now, the flame just a small spark just a second ago. His attention drifted away into the into the dark corners of his mind.

The door opens but he doesn’t notice.

“Mike, do you know-”

“What do you want?!” He snapped, cutting them off. His gaze finally returned and he realized he was looking at Nancy. She had a look of astonishment as she stared at him. Searching his outer layer. She was looking for what was wrong. What could have caused the outburst? She was the one who convinced him to go to that stupid therapist. He stopped going to the appointments, but look how much that kook helped in the few meetings they did have. Slowly through the nose-

Her gaze falls on the laptop, still on and chiming with each message. She shuts the door.

“Mike? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Why does there-Richie’s just a friend, that’s it!” Nancy fiddles with her hands, taking in his reply before frowning in confusion.

“Mike?” He stands up from the bed, pacing aggressively. “What do you want me to say?! It’s not some-some stupid _fetish_!” She looks down before sliding her hands into the pockets of her skirt. She watches him pass her a couple times, before nodding.

“The therapist said you can only pace 20 times before-”

“Who needs the fucki-the _stupid_ therapist. He couldn’t-He didn’t help me.” Shaking his head, his glare falls on her. “Nobody can help me.” Taking a step to the side, she cocks her head.

“Why?” He finally stops.

“Why what? Don’t you have your friends to entertain or someth-” Leaning on his dresser, she continues loud enough to cut off his angry rambling. “ _Why_ can’t anyone help you, Mike?” He stops, his expression falling briefly. The question bounces about in his mind pondering the likely-hood of this just being another overreaction. He seemed to have calmed down, his hands clammy and pressed against each other but Nancy continues to wait, fully knowing this wasn’t the end. Shaking his head, Mike returned to sitting in his bed. The energy built in his body moving to his leg and forcing it to bounce animatedly.

“No, I don’t-I don’t need help.” Nodding in false hope, he breathed deeply. “I’m fine.” He averts his gaze, his eyes drilling holes into the carpeted floors. Taking a step closer, Nancy decided to address Mike’s first statement. About some kid named Richie who she assumed was a guy. She played Match-Maker for Steve and Jonathan. Maybe she could help Mike.

“I know I’m not... Someone you trust, Mike, but,” She swallows, as he looks at her. Smiling weakly, she shrugs. “You can tell me if... Something’s bothering you,” She addresses the ‘possible crush’ lightly as to not anger him. His eyes narrow as she continues to approach. She reaches his bed and takes a seat, giving him a warm smile.

“You know. Crushes or insecurities-” Mike frowned, reading through her. He gets up from the bed with a scoff, grabbing his laptop off of his desk. His gaze fell on the screen and his eyes drifted back and forth, reading.

ranger.lucas: you know i wouldn’t be surprised if he was gay

dustin.the.bard: lucas, go satiate your conspiracy theories elsewhere, you asshole.

cleric.will: it’s not enough to chase him off, you gotta talk about him behind his back too?

ranger.lucas: chill out m o m s

ranger.lucas: just think about it. he cried because of mr.clarke

ranger.lucas: hangs out with max and el more than any of us according to you two which sounds like bullshit i might add

ranger.lucas: and what 14 year-old boy have you known to spend 3 hours in the bathroom???

dustin.the.bard: shut up, you stereotyping fig

thez00mer: chewy, did you mean *fuck?

dustin.the.bard: i meant what i typed.

Mike’s gaze seemed far away as Nancy tried again to connect with him.

“Who’s Richie?” She questioned, a cheeky grin on her cherry pink lips. Frowning, Mike shut the laptop. “A friend.” He stated with an air of finality. Humming Nancy watched him approach the door, certain areas of the floor creaking under his steps. Crossing her ankles, she shrugged.

“Well, what do you think of him?” She continued. Mike froze at the door, his form rigid. Turning his head slightly, he fails to hide his shudder.

“What?”

“Richie. You said-” She stops, rethinking her words before continuing. “Do you, like, think he’s cool or-” Shaking his head, Mike snatched open the door.

“Richie is _just a friend_! I literally just met him yesterday!” His eyes were wide with anger as he stared back at his sister, now standing in the hall. She purses her lips, opening her mouth to speak.

“I can't begay!” Mike suddenly blurts, his face growing red. The previous chatter from downstairs goes silent with Mike’s proclamation. Nancy falls silent, her mouth falling shut as he leaves her sight.

**7:04 PM**

Mike didn’t know how much time had passed. All he was sure of was the words that continued to echo in his mind and the texts that came through with each minute that passed. His knees were pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as he found himself again in the fort on the ground. The basement doors were again locked, the house eerily quiet. Or had there been more noise when he made such a fuss slamming doors and stomping down the stairs? What counted as noise? He was too afraid to check for life in his house. He knew what emotion currently had a hold on him.

Dread.

It held him back like an invisible gale and knotted his stomach, locking it up tight. No food getting in or out for as long as it lasted. His brain is numb, void of any other thought than the information he had already known and had been aware of since the day he saw one of his closest friends in a different light. The weight on his shoulders caused by the dread that wouldn’t leave, that manifested into a demon. It’s wicked laughter, whether a figment of Mike’s imagination or a sound that replaced the chiming of his laptop sitting idle at his feet, he was no longer sure. When he got into these moods, he couldn’t feel. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t _breathe_. The laptop chimes again, turning into harsh chuckles and he drops his head to his knees, placing his hands over his ears. Shaking his head, he closed the device with his foot, rocking back and forth on his heels.

In slowly through the nose, exhale from the mouth...

Starting awake, the world was dark. Or rather his room was dark. Blinking violently, he felt around for his glasses, for the stupid lamp or _something_. When his palm finally clattered over his glasses, he fumbled to put them on. Sitting up, his gaze darted around his room in fear looking for the cause of the chill he felt creeping on his back. Reaching out, he plucked the lamp string and shuffled to avoid the floors surrounding his bed. His room was clear. No evidence of a break-in, no clowns. No reason for him to be so... So anxious. Placing a hand on his chest, he tried to calm his breathing, an evident frown falling onto his face. Maybe...

No, it couldn’t be. Climbing out of the large bed, he ran to the door, throwing it open and glaring out into the porcelain white walls of the motel. Or as porcelain, as they could be with his attacked eyeballs trying to see in the adjusted lighting. The halls were just as barren and lonely as they ever were so he closed the door, locking all three of the locks to be sure. It was extra money to get one of the best rooms in the building, but with the odd jobs he did, he was able to keep up with the payments.

Knowing there was no longer any danger did nothing for Richie’s nerves, his hands still shaking by his sides. Muttering various swears, he approached his window, throwing the creaky old thing open. He took a deliberately deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs before exhaling. While it helped a bit, he still couldn’t shake off the icy chill that ran over his being. His stomach shifts uneasily and knows this isn’t just him being paranoid. This feeling of hopelessness, numbing, and paralyzing dread were not _his_ feelings. He hated this shit.

It used to be every other month that he’d fall into one of these fits but recently it’s become every other night. Richie couldn’t decide whether to be pissed or worried. Pissed that his twin was fucking with his sleeping patterns or scared. Scared that whatever is happening may just lead to their death, then he’d never meet them. And he’d end up dying from the grief. There was no way he could help him, not from where he was. Maybe if he talked to someone about it...

Richie only had one friend that he could list in the godforsaken town of Hawkins. Dustin was nice, but he just didn’t feel comfortable venting to a person he’d never met in person. So he grabbed his phone, curling up by the window, his chest still rising and falling at a heightened rate. The light from the device was blinding as Richie tried to send a simple message.

RichardT: help

He doesn’t expect him to answer. He knew he was annoying as all hell and that he probably hated his guts, but he had no one else to turn to. His losers... He’d already fucked everything up with them. Shaking away the thought, turned to the empty road leading into the Motel Parking lot as he waited.

Wheelbarrow: richie? are you okay?

RichardT: yeah, of course

RichardT: no

RichardT: i don’t fucking know

RichardT: i just really needed someone to talk to.

Wheelbarrow: well, i’m here.

Wheelbarrow: couldn’t sleep?

RichardT: well i was sleeping fine

RichardT: but this fucking idiot had to go and scare me awake

RichardT: and now i’m anxious and i can’t breathe or think

Wheelbarrow: any idea who the ‘fucking idiot’ who woke you up is?

RichardT: i wish

RichardT: are you sure i’m not bothering you? it’s like 10:30, don’t you ever sleep?

Wheelbarrow: i couldn’t sleep either.

RichardT: well, shit, what’s your excuse?

Wheelbarrow: ah...

Wheelbarrow: it’s just some anxiety. basically the usual

RichardT: you and me both, god I need a smoke

Wheelbarrow: you smoke?

RichardT: used to

RichardT: i decided I needed healthy lungs if I was going to woo anyone in Hawkins

Wheelbarrow: don’t forget the bad breath. thank god you quit, I don’t want to smell that crap

Richie laughed softly, rubbing his eye, tiredly. Reaching out, he shut his window, finding it easier to breathe. Heaving a sigh, he let himself recline on the rickety alcove. Yawning softly, he returned to the phone, a soft pang of dread and nerves still hovering at the back of his skull.

Wheelbarrow: where’d you move here from?

RichardT: another shithole almost as bad as Hawkins

RichardT: we call it Derry

Wheelbarrow: like derry, maine?

RichardT: no dErRy, IoAh

Wheelbarrow: it’s iowa rich

RichardT: fuck you, i’m tired

Wheelbarrow: i’m just here to help you

RichardT: w hatever

Wheelbarrow: favorite food?

RichardT: would you hate me if i made a joke?

Wheelbarrow: yes. just answer the question

Wheelbarrow: i don’t know what mine is. maybe waffles? salmon is okay

RichardT: oh ho Mike’s posh, he eats five-star salmon slices

Wheelbarrow: the only good thing about having rich parents is the food everything else fucking sucks

RichardT: i’m an ice cream man myself. pasta is also pretty good

Wheelbarrow: nice.

Wheelbarrow: is there any other reason why I was the first person you chose to text?

RichardT: how do you know you were the first?

RichardT: there could be others

Wheelbarrow: “it’s not a phase, Dustin, i l o v e h I m”

RichardT: well, i hope you’re happy, wheelie’s, cuz i hate you now

Wheelbarrow: oh no

Wheelbarrow: you’re breaking my heart rich

Wheelbarrow: it hurts, i’m dying. ouch

RichardT: fuck you

He couldn’t help laughing at the sarcastic reply he got from Mike, plucking the glasses off of his face.

RichardT: tiik off mt glasswd

RichardT: wsrnimg

Wheelbarrow: put your damn glasses back on

RichardT: no csn do

RichardT: tgis hirtd

Wheelbarrow: of course it hurts, you idiot.

RichardT: glasses back on. i may fall asleep on you, dicedecker, just a warning

Wheelbarrow: i know what the other reason was.

RichardT: other reason for what, my dearest pile of trash?

Wheelbarrow: i don’t know why i’m friends with you.

Wheelbarrow: anyway, it’s because my boring-ness puts you to sleep.

RichardT: well, at least you tried, Sarah show him what he’s won!

RichardT: a dollar

RichardT: but not a new one. one of those old wrinkled ones with the tears in it

Wheelbarrow: wow, thanks

RichardT: i'm only joshing

RichardT: give yourself more credit, you’re not boring

RichardT: you’re calming

Wheelbarrow: wait what

Wheelbarrow: rich, don’t get all gay on me and then leave

Wheelbarrow: ugh, lucky bastard

Wheelbarrow: g’night, trashmouth

Soft snores fill Richie’s room as he lies curled up by the window. His phone sits placed on the window sill, quiet after Mike’s final texts. The moonlight rains down on him delicately as he rests. All evidence of his past freak-out session gone from his expression. His face; calm, peaceful. The lines that had just creased his face, gone and replaced by the youthful appearance that matched those their age.

At the Wheeler household, in the Nerd Lair, Mike lies on his couch. He’s lying on his stomach one hand dangling off the couch and his phone on the floor just beneath it. He snores lightly, the room very warm from the heater that he had activated just before answering Richie’s text. His heart pattered in tune with his deep breaths, serenity plastered across his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i find comfort in describing anxiety through characters. i'm looking for a beta reader, but don't know how one finds one of those?  
> any help would be great k thanks.  
> also, someone hug mike.


	4. apex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> n.  
> the beginning of the end  
> after the highest point, there is only down.
> 
> || richie meets mike officially.

Hawkins, Indiana wasn’t known for being too hot or too cold. It was hot enough to need a dip in the pool in the summer, and cold enough to see your breath in the winter, and a healthy balance of the two when Spring or Fall came around. The only problem was, sometimes, the weather wasn’t so predictable. There were some days in Hawkins, almost as mysterious as the countless shit the Party had endured together. Heatwaves going for as long as weeks, blizzards that started out of nowhere on a clear day. Mike hated Hawkins weather.

It’s the exact reason why he doesn’t watch the news anymore. The weather never stayed the same, so what was the point? Well, his mother loved the news; or rather the Meteorologist, Mr. Kent. Karen Wheeler always went out of her way to watch the Weather part of the news, fawning over the middle aged man on the screen and relaying what he’d said to her kids. He was so good at his job, his fingers falling on the exact locations of the places he was reporting on. He was always smiling and his jokes? Well, they weren’t Mike’s cup of hot chocolate, but at least he was funny. His strong eye contact made the audience feel like he was talking directly to them and Karen could appreciate that after nights with Theodore Wheeler. Sometimes, Mike found himself waking up in the morning, and stumbling in on his mother solemnly watching the news. Her eyes glossy and arms crossed loosely across her chest. He’d have to remind her that he needed breakfast _before_ the late bell.

Mike never felt the need to question it and his mother never explained why she did it. It was the one thing they had a mutual understanding on. She’d leave him be for a whole day if he agreed to forget whatever he’d seen. Mike hates secrets, despite having a lot of them, himself. He also hated heatwaves.

The feeling of being coated head to toe in sweat, the beads traveling slowly down every inch of your body. And _not_ in the nice way. Sweating on your scalp, weaving between hair follicles and your hair spasming in reply, growing 10 sixes and going frizzy. You try to dress comfortable, but the clothes end up sticking to your skin, in less than desirable places and suddenly everything gets you irritable. Shade doesn’t protect you from anything but polite chatter. The air is stiff and hard to breath, the ground radiating the same heat the Sun is trying to give off. There’s no hiding, no peace, and no quiet as every child in the cul-de-sac leaves their houses to play in the pools.

So, yes. There was good reason for Mike to hate heatwaves. They were long, dreary disgusting times of endless discomfort. And sadly, that Friday, good old Mr. Kent decided to be wrong with the weather yet again. He predicted comfortable temperatures of 80 and below, soft breezes, and a possible drizzle for those who still found 85 degrees too hot to handle. Instead, the heat skyrocketed to a whopping 100 degrees. There was the rare breeze every hour or so but the sky was so barren. Not a single cloud for miles.

Obviously something went wrong when Mr. Kent and the Sun communicated because this was unbelievable.

The first 5 minutes of Back to The Future were hard enough to sit through without having to hear the constant mumble of his family conversing at the top of the stairs. Not to mention, he could feel every bit of sweat on his forehead. The ground was the only cold surface he could find, lying sprawled out, each limb separate to avoid contact between them. His head was turned to watch the screen as the tape skipped. Somewhere by his left leg, the floor vibrates. A chime a couple seconds later reminds him that it’s his phone and not the ground shifting. His brown eyes travel up to the face of Marty McFly and Mike finds himself reflecting on the panic attack he had two days before.

Marty is a good looking guy. Well. Perhaps he should say the actor behind Marty _was_ good looking. At one point. He tried to remind himself that thinking other boys as good looking didn’t necessarily make him gay, but then why did he fall out of love with Jane? Why did he feel pressured to like girls and more comfortable liking guys?

Maybe he wasn’t bi at all.

Turning his head, Mike lets his gaze rest on the neutral colors of his ceiling. He counted the dips and ripples in the paint, listening to Marty and Doc talk about the stupid Time Machine. Farther back, a soft hum, was the mumbles of his family that slowly grew louder as time went by. Words would reach his ears clearly like, ‘Mike’ or ‘outside’, but the true theme of the conversation was anonymous to him. It was growing a bit frustrating, but he didn’t even have the energy to whisper. He pulled his watch to his face, glaring at the date listed on the small screen, heaving a sigh.

Another week without Mike and Dustin’s Day Off. He’d have to cancel, wouldn’t he? There was no point in leading them on to believe that they could come over. And sadly, sneaking them in was out of the question as both Nancy and Ted agreed he’d have to keep the door open if he was going to ‘live down there like some kind of gremlin’. Those were Ted’s exact words. And Mike thought he might’ve laughed if he hadn’t just sat through him and Karen lecturing him on bringing up the LGBT community in the house. _And at such an unacceptable decibel, Michael_. _What would the n e i g h b o r s think_?

The neighbors. It was always about the fucking neighbors. Nothing else mattered.

The screech of the Time Machine against the street on his box television set echoes off the concrete walls of the basement, but he kept his gaze steadfast on the ceiling. Somewhere under the bland outer coating of paint, had to be something more than the same old. Something with more meaning, something that’d help him figure out what to do with himself and how to approach calling off the get-together.

Footsteps trail from the upper left corner to the area by the Basement stairs and Mike freezes. Watching the steps, he waits for the tell tale sign of an argument. Maybe not angered stomps, maybe not a vase breaking. Nerves build in his stomach and electricity gathers at his feet. Another footstep and more of their mumbled speech. Holly audibly whines and Mike finds himself fumbling to low down the volume of the television set.

‘Ted, you may have given up already, but I did not go through all that trouble to get him just to lose him!’

‘Karen. This has nothing to do with that. I struggled _with you_!’

Mike grunts in confusion.

‘Oh, don’t give me that-’

‘Karen-’

Karen’s voice breaks, her voice growing in volume. ‘No! He’s spent every day in that Basement! He needs to get out and celebrate his last summer as a-as a kid!’

Silence. A small whine from Holly.

Ted’s voice gets quiet, but annoyance is still clear in his voice as he sighs. ‘He’ll always be our boy, Karen.’

‘He’ll always be our _son_ , Ted, but someday Michael won’t be our boy anymore. Someday, we’re going to wake up and he’s just going to walk out that door.’

‘Michael will never be the same bright eyed boy from two years ago if we don’t do something!’

More silence.

‘Don’t you get it, Ted?! Ugh-You just-You never cared did you?!’ There are quick footsteps, lighter and determined. Nancy’s voice is the next to perk up.

‘Neither of you get it! You never even tried to understand him! He _hates_ being called Michael.’ Another whine from Holly. Nancy’s voice continues, her footsteps moving to retreat upstairs.

‘If you really feel bad about whatever _this_ is... And you want to fix it. Get him off punishment and get Dustin over here for their party.’

‘ _Now_.’

Mike hadn’t even realized his eyes were shut so tight. That his fists were clenched by his sides. He exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and suddenly the air was too heavy to breathe. His chest faltered and fell, his eyes stuck on the doorway. How long had it been since the Wheeler parents had last fought like this? This was obviously one of the more vanilla arguments, but Mike always found every fight between them too excruciating to sit through. Their words cut through every wall of the house playing as clearly as if you were in the very room they fought in. After being married for so long, they knew the ins and outs of each other’s personality and every tid bit that made them weak. It was hard, and Mike tried to become numb to them, but those were his _parents_.

 _His parents_ who spent every moment at each other’s throats, ready with threats full of meaning and angry grudges. Who were so stressed that they hadn’t the time to deal with Michael Anthony Wheeler. Mike. Dungeon Master. Maybe this was his fault. He was just... Pilling on more stress by being his rambunctious troublesome self. He was the problem. And you can’t fix a problem by ignoring it.

Rolling over, Mike curled on his side. His mother’s voice drifts down the stairs, sickeningly sweet as she engages in a conversation with Mrs. Henderson. A couple minutes of small talk and Mike’s ears have blocked up. His eyes glaze over and he’s no longer on Earth. No longer sitting in Hawkins waiting for everything to get better. It was quiet, and he felt at float.

Drifting away.

“Dusty! Dusty, Mrs. Wheeler called, she said you and Michael were supposed to hang out today?” Dustin glances up at his mother from his perch on his bed. Flashing her a smile, he shuts the comic book he was reading. “ _Mike_ , mom.” Nodding, she runs a hand through Tew’s fur. _‘Right, Right. Mike not Michael.’_ He stretches out his arms, rising from his bed and running his gaze along the walls of his room. His smile falls when he lets the knowledge that Karen Wheeler called instead of the usual text from Mike. Grabbing his bag, he slipped past his mother into the main hallway.

“Did she say anything else?” His mother’s hum lilts along in the air before a grunt of dissent filled the air.

“Only that you should get there as soon as you can. Is everything all right?” She stops him in the living room looking over his face in worry, her eyes stalling on his own bright blue eyes. Dustin’s lips quirk into a soft smirk as he nods. “Yeah! No, yeah, of course. Why would anything be wrong?” Plucking his phone out of his pocket, Dustin turns to the door, his smile dropping just as fast. She waves him goodbye as he leaves the house, shutting the door after himself.

Dustin was thankful to find that Steve was already waiting out on the street. The teen’s fingers drummed along the steering wheel, his gaze on the dark concrete of the road. His lips moved, but as far as Dustin could tell, no sound came out of them. Throwing open the passenger side door, Dustin climbed in, pulling up his contacts. The door shuts and the car roars to a start. Drifting out of the speakers was a song that he found Steve listened to a lot more than what was deemed healthy.

_Loving is easy_

_You had me fucked up_

_It used to be so hard to see_

They starting coasting down the road as the phone rang, Dustin’s gaze stuck on the world outside. His window was rolled all the way down, his elbow peeking out of it. It was hot enough without Dustin having to worry if one of his best friends were dying. Now he had to go and pick up a kid that was obviously Mike’s twin because how could two people look so similar without being related? It just wasn’t practical. The line rang three times before Richie picks up.

“Man of Many Voices Tozier, speak your mind or forever hold your peace.” Steve sent Dustin a perplexed glance, the curly haired teen only shrugging in reply.

“Hey, Richie, it’s Dustin.” There’s a gasp and the sound of items shuffling. “Dusty, my boy! Is it really you? Your lisp is a lot cuter than I thought it would be-” Shaking his head, Dustin continued.

“Cut the shit, Tozier, we gotta get to Mike’s house.”

“I thought you said 3.”

“Well, now I’m saying 1.” Richie grunts and there’s the sound of a door opening and closing. Footsteps on carpeted floors and another door opening and closing. The silence seemed to be Richie taking in and going over the information he was just given. Dustin could care less if he understood what was said, there was no time for that. Mike was in distress. Richie sighs.

“Okay, Turtle-Wrangler, here’s the thing. I gotta...” He pauses. “There’s somethin’-I gotta do.” His voice seems to drop an octave as he stutters out his reply. With footsteps on concrete comes his breathes strained and ragged as if he’s taking quicker steps. Rolling his eyes, Dustin glared out the window.

“Rich, we can’t-”

“I get it, I got you. It-It’s just this quick thing, yannow? Not like it’s gonna kill you.” Dustin sighs. “Okay?” Dustin nods, knowing full well that Richie can’t see him nod. Somehow Richie knows he’s agreed though. With a relieved sigh, he chuckles.

“Good. Hey, I was thinkin’, Nougat, what if I got Mike something? This’ll be the first time I see his _actual face_.” Dustin frowns, replaying the sentence in his head. Shaking his head, he narrows his eyes. “You deleted that picture from James?” There’s a confused grunt from Richie.

“Picture? Dude, I have Dick-for-brains blocked on everything.”

“Well, shit.” The quick footsteps stop, Richie panting into the phone. “What? Was Mike in the picture? I could’ve seen ‘im?!” Shaking his head, Dustin places the phone down on his lap. Before he can answer, Richie swears, his footsteps picking back up. He sounds rushed, his footfalls quick and messy.

“Oh, shit-Dusty, pick me up on Elm’s! You got it?”

“Are you okay? What are you-”

“Dustin! Elm’s Street!”

“Okay, okay! I get it! Richie, what-”

The line cuts out.

Dustin frowned, sharing a glance with Steve. Dustin doesn’t even have to utter a word, his eyes swimming with emotions that not even his own mind could follow. Nodding, Steve flies into full babysitter mode and yanks the steering wheel to take a U-turn. Dustin wasn’t sure what to make of the call, the whole conversation a shitshow. He had to do something, he wanted to get Mike a gift. And Elm’s street for Pete’s sake? The one street in all of Hawkins that James and his goons made very clear was their base of operations. Where they congregated on days like _this_? This was information Dustin only knew because of Richie himself.

So why would the glasses-clad fool want to go there?

Dustin slipped as Steve yanked around a bend, Elm’s street tapering off of their road just a couple miles ahead. He struggled to grip his seat belt, sending Steve incredulous glances. Within seconds, they were skidding onto Elm’s, Dustin’s eyes rolling about in his head, trying to find a stable seating within the rocking vehicle. Another turn and he would have hurled. Steve did a spectacular job of parking, letting the car sit crooked by the sidewalk, the both of them trying to catch their breath. While Dustin takes a moment to find his grasp on Earth, Steve keeps a look out. Peering through the rear view, shifting the side way mirrors.

Steve was about ready to leap out of the car when the door behind Dustin flies open. In slides a very bruised Richie, his arms already swelling. His glasses sit clumsily on the bridge of his nose, the face underneath, thankfully clear of any wounds besides a cut on his cheek. Throwing his bag to the side, a plastic bag tumbles with it. Dustin flinches as the door slams shut and a hand cups his shoulder.

“Dusty, am I glad to see you!” His heaved but controlled breaths serve as a metronome for every one’s emotions as the BMW roars back to life. Craning his neck, Dustin takes in Richie’s battered appearance, his expression growing more and more worried.

“Holy shit-”

“What happened to you?!” Mike’s voice calls from the couch as he looks up from his pile of tapes. He sits on the center cushion, his legs folded comfortably underneath him. He doesn’t bother to get up from the chair, recalling that the last time he and Richie met face to face, the idiot was bruised and limping then as well.

Richie doesn’t have the same reaction. Once his gaze falls on Mike, he almost chokes. It was like staring into a mirror. A comfortable and very geeky mirror, but a mirror nonetheless and Richie felt his knees go stiff. His heart beats in his ears, his stomach does flips in the deepest pit of his gut. He felt like laughing, he felt like _crying_. 1,146 miles later and here they were.

He didn’t want to admit how many different ways he pictured their meeting playing out. He didn’t foresee it being a terrible tackle in the Eastern hallways after being pummeled by James and his goons. He’s been planning this moment. He’d imagined this moment so many times and never in his wildest dreams had he imagined his twin would be so.

Well. So _Mike_. His fingers go limp and the gift clatters to the ground, his jaw going slack. The only noise that exits him is a soft, ‘Jesus fuck...’. Dustin snickers at the reaction, standing by to catch Richie if he falls.

Standing up from the couch, Mike heaves an exasperated sigh. Stepping around Richie, he shuts the exit, locking the door. Glancing at the small box on the ground, he bends down to lift it up, eyeing the wrapping paper. Shaking it, he turns to Richie.

“Who’s birthday?” Richie swallows, gesturing to Mike’s face. “You have my face.” Nodding, Mike manages a playful smirk.

“I guess. _You_ look like crap.” Looking down, Richie lets his gaze travel down his bruised arms and legs before reaching up and placing hesitant fingers on the Garfield bandage that now sat on the highest peak of his cheekbone. Usually, he felt quite comfortable in his skin, but as he stood looking like the poster child of an orphan with troublesome tendencies, heat filled his cheeks. He’d never felt so self conscious. Clearing his throat, he picks at the ends of his curls.

He takes a step further into the basement, letting his gaze dance along the walls. Decorating every inch were various posters from before their time. spanning from the 70s to the late 90s, but the main focus was obviously the 80s. There were Christmas lights hung up on the wall behind a fort that sat by the couch. On the floor sat an old box television set, an Atari, an old Nintendo console, and a Wii surrounding it. The sight of the Wii pulled a snort from the curly haired twin, but the sound died off into the silence.

The aesthetic of this room was the perfect example of how he imagined his ideal twin. But with a better sense of humor. And curlier hair.

Spinning on his heels, Richie grins. His confidence returns as he throws himself into the couch, dropping his bag to the floor. “Present’s yours, Wheelbarrow. Wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just grabbed anything,” Mike dons a look of confusion as he looks down at the terribly wrapped gift. A soft ‘why’ drifts from his lips as Richie plucks off his old Puma’s. Climbing onto his knees, Richie gestures to Dustin.

“Hey! Dusty, c’mere,” Shaking his head, Dustin patted Mike’s shoulder out of pity. Removing his own bag, Dustin throws it at Richie, settling into the couch himself. Richie throws the bag to the ground, turning very animatedly to the pile of tapes.

“You just came from getting your ass handed to you. Don’t you think you should chill out?”

“ _Awe_ , are you worried about me, Dusty?” Richie cooed, pressing his glasses into the bridge of his nose. Mike finally make his way over, his gift already hanging around his wrist. It was a cheap bracelet, of course, but cheap bracelet or not, Mike felt something inside him lurch at the feeling of having a piece of someone’s affection with him at all times. Hope, perhaps? Sitting on the opposite side of Dustin, Mike shook his bangs out of his eyes, the heat having died down since his parents’ fight.

“The day I don’t care will be a dark day, Tozier.” Richie still rests on his knees, sending Dustin a cheeky grin. “Love you too, Trucker Cap.” His gaze turns to Mike and his grin seems to grow wider. “Hey, Mikey-”

“Jeez, you talk a whole lot, don’t you...” Mike complained, snatching a tape from his hands. Looking over the movie, he nodded. A Stephen King movie. “Never stop talking, Wheelie’s. It’s a gift of mine.” Nodding at the bracelet hanging from Mike’s wrist, he grabs another tape off the table.

“I’m gonna get matching one’s for me and Dusty, what do you think?”

Dustin scoffed, shaking his head. He’d already started snacking, an opened bag of Cheetos resting in his hands. Throwing a couple into his mouth, he shakes his head. “You ever thought about-” He chews a bit, making space to talk clearly. “ _Saving_ money?” Richie sends Dustin a playful look of disgust. “Ew.” Rolling his eyes, Dustin chuckles.

“Asshole.” Mike nods placing the movie down and grabbing another one from Richie’s hands.

“I can help pay for them if you want.” He mumbles, thoughtfully. _The Shining_. Richie snatches the movie back, frowning.

“Stop grabbin’ them out of my hands, you shit!” Mike frowns, snatching it back. “They’re _my movies_ , you Bogart!” Dustin holds up his hands trying to melt into the couch as the two argued. Glancing between the both of them, he dumps the rest of his Cheetos into his mouth.

“A _Bogart_?”

“Yeah!”

“What is this, a 1980’s teen film? Level up, Frog Face.” Mike scoffs, swatting Richie’s bruised shoulder. A painful squeak erupts from Richie’s chest, as he grips his shoulder, pouting childishly. “We have the _same face_!”

“Actually-your’s is more like... A fucking toad. _I_ look like a frog.” Mike’s face contorts in an odd mixture of confusion and annoyance as Richie smirks.

“Frogs are way cuter.” Mike tries to reach out to hit Richie again but Dustin decides to sit up, clearing his throat noisily. Glancing between the both of them, he sighs, shaking his head. Letting his gaze drop to the movies, he grabs the movie from Mike’s hands, rising from the couch.

“Okay, listen, you _Airheads_.” Richie snorts to keep from chuckling aloud. “You can both be cute frogs.” He slides the tape into the television, clicking the rewind button. Standing to his feet, he shrugs. “Like... The Desert Rain Frog.” Richie and Mike stare at him in silence, a smug grin on Richie’s face and a conflicted look on Mike’s. Returning to sitting between the two, he graces them both with a pointed glance. “Okay?” Mike settles into the couch, the other two following suit. At the center of the table was a large bowl of popcorn that Dustin took to holding on his lap.

Richie grabs a handful of popcorn, using his shirt as a bowl. “Okay, but I’m still the cuter one, right? Deal?” Mike sends Richie a glare, clapping his hands twice. The lights die down as the movie starts. The humiliating flush that started to fill Mike’s cheeks was thankfully hidden under the darkness of the room, his breaths slow as he tried to pay attention to the movie and not the lingering he gaze he felt on his face.

Despite having watched it at least 12 times before, Mike still found himself jumping at the movie while Richie laughed maniacally. Dustin was on a fine line of either jumping too discreetly for anyone to notice or laughing to play off his shaky hands. After the movie, Mike used the one bit of technology allowed to play some old 80’s tunes. _Just Another Day by Oingo Boingo_ plays softly in the background as the three boys move to the carpet. They pull out Mike’s stacks of old comic books, each choosing a series and flipping through the pages.

Richie seemed genuinely impressed. Grinning, Dustin patted his Superman comic, the 10th out of the series. He was _flying_ through them.

“Let’s use only 80s slang from now on.” Richie returns the smile, turning to Mike. “Well, Michael, you handsome devil, this party is bitchin’.”

“Damn skippy-” Dustin gasped in between laughs. Richie found himself falling into giggles, dropping his head to the comic book. Shaking his head, Mike turned the page of his comic book, a soft smirk on his face. “You guys are dickweeds.” Forcing themselves to stop laughing, they turn to him, practically biting their own tongues. Nodding, he glares at both of them.

“Dickweeds.” Their laughter resumes, taking whatever sadness was plaguing Mike earlier that day and throwing it out the window. He finds himself joining in their shenanigans. Spouting stupid puns that only they would understand. Having debates based on their comic series’. Evening turned to night, but the party didn’t stop there. Dustin decided it would be in everyone’s best interest if it turned into a sleepover. His decision was more out of worry for Mike’s mental state than anything else, but the next thing they knew, Mike was huddled in Jane’s fort with Richie and Dustin in sleeping bags beside it.

Richie didn’t question it, knowing from their conversation in that bathroom a week before that Mike was a troubled kid. And plus, who didn’t love sleeping in a fucking _fort_? They were awesome.

With the time that went by, Richie became hyper aware to the fact that Mike didn’t think they were twins at all. Richie didn’t exactly bring it up, no one did, but Mike’s actions spoke louder than his words ever would. He was surprised by their similar features and voices, Richie’s accent aside, but he went as far to say he thought they were ‘ _those doppelgangers that he read about_ ’. Dustin remarked on how stupid that idea was as they’d probably be dead, but the conversation died after that.

Each boy fell quickly to sleep. Per the norm, Mike was the last to fall asleep.


	5. epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> n.  
> a moment of sudden revelation or insight
> 
> || mike is a little less oblivious, but a little more depressed.

“I’m heading out, now!” Mike called, his hoodie zipped and old converses clad on his feet. Karen leans to see her son, looking over his appearance before grinning. She dries her hands on a dish towel before closing the distance between them and scanning his attire. She was a fairly short woman, so he was just a couple inches taller than her, especially now that she wore flats around the house instead of her usual tall heels. Ted complained way too much when she wore them, and her height wasn’t one of her top priorities as of recent.

Her hands fiddled with his jacket collar and hood, making sure the zipper was all the way up. She was sweating bullets just looking at him in the outfit, but he hated it when she nagged too much and he _really_ loved that hoodie. Patting down the sweater, she sighs, contentedly.

“Okay, sweetheart. Don’t stay out too long, okay? If you need anything, call _me_.” She sends a thoughtful gaze out into the slowly darkening street as Mike steps out. He nods, showing her his phone before walking across the yard to the sidewalk. The soft click of the door closing told Mike it was safe to slouch, his shoulders dropping slowly. Sending the house another glance, he sighed. It was supposed to be his home, but was it really? As he turned walking up the road, he let his thoughts wander. He’d told his mother he was going out to hang out with Lucas and the others at the arcade. It wasn’t really a lie because he told them the same thing. Only the thing is, he lied to them too, so it was this big messy white lie wrapped in another white lie that turned into a black lie. If possible.

In reality, he was going to the Quarry. A location that haunted Mike’s dreams for as long as he could remember. Or rather, since he almost died at the same location by his own choice. Just to save Dustin’s baby teeth. Instead of scaring him as it had in the past, the Quarry began to intrigue him. The height of the fall, the wind that ran through your hair as you descend, coming closer and closer to the surface of the bright teal water. Hopper told the kids time and time again that the height of the fall could kill them if they tried to jump off, but Mike wondered if it actually could. He wondered if the force would crush you and kill you quickly or if it was more of you’re too tired by the time you reach the water to keep yourself afloat. And you drown.

Not to mention there was a path leading around the large collection of water that slowly got closer and closer to the surface. Depending on where you jumped off, you could survive. The only question was whether or not you wanted to.

It was thoughts like these that he kept to himself. That he tried to hide and knew if anyone else heard them, he’d be admitted quickly to Amherst. And that wouldn’t be fun in any way, shape, or form. Being forced to choke down useless placebo pills and sit in solitary confinement for hours. Why travel so far for solitary confinement he could give himself in his own house? The pills were useless anyway, and the only difference was the lack of boredom.

Mike found himself halfway to the Quarry before realizing that he hadn’t taken his bike. Taking a hesitant glance over his shoulder, he pondered how much time it’d take him to get back to his house, grab his bike and ride to the Quarry. His last thought is ‘ _That’s a stupid idea. Keep walking or else you’ll have to go back home right now_.’ The sun was falling faster than he had expected and the chilly bite of the night breeze was harsh against his cheeks and fingertips. He could hardly feel the wind on his ankles, despite his pin rolled jeans. The stark difference between day and night was another odd occurrence of Hawkins, Indiana, but Mike tried to stay indoors often.

The arching gate to the Quarry was a welcome sight, Mike sighing in relief. If he had to walk another mile-Well, he wouldn’t let himself. He’d lie on the sidewalk and call his mother to come pick him up because he _got lost_ and _wasn’t feeling too well_. Stepping through the gate, Mike took a deep breath of the salty scent in the air. It was an unfamiliar smell that swelled with the soft scent of old hotel detergent and lavender air freshener. The Quarry usually had a tint of pond water in the air with the musky smell of grass and forestry; but then again, most of Hawkins smelled that way. Mike’s footsteps mindlessly followed the path like muscle memory, his gaze low, protecting his cheeks in the collar of his hoodie. The memory of running away from James and Troy crept upon the back of his neck, alerting the small hairs. Looking up, a younger version of himself runs by along with a frightened Dustin. He waited but James and Troy never ran by. The memory ended, Mike blinking in inebriated confusion. The ledge would be only a couple feet away by now.

A halted sigh leaves his lips as his gaze scans the ledge. A black silhouette stands at the edge, watching the water below. He could make out curly hair and jeans on the character. His stomach got all knotted and his palms got sweaty until he realized who it was. They twisted around to look at him, thick glasses shimmering in the moonlight. Shaking his head, Mike took a step forward, crouching down to sit on the ledge. Richie sighs, heavily, a soft swear dripping from his lips.

“Of course you’re the reason why I suddenly wanted to come to this shitty pool.” Richie used the term pool lightly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The smell of salt, hotel detergent, and lavender were stronger now that Mike was sitting by the obnoxious teen. He also took this moment to note that Richie wasn’t wearing anything but his usual Hawaiian tee, but in the distance was a hastily discarded Windbreaker in blues, greens, and white.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mike questioned, frowning up at his curly-haired double. Richie met Mike’s gaze briefly before heaving an even heavier sigh as if just talking to Mike was a chore. “You’re really dense, y’know that?” Richie commented, looking across the Quarry to the other side. His gaze was empty but thoughtful. Somewhere on his face, Mike could map out concern, but the thought only reminded him of the bracelet he never took off. Mike grimaced at the comment, turning his attention to the water below. He rocked his feet alternatively, the water shifting under the moonlight.

“I couldn’t get this stupid vision of-of falling into a big ass body of water out of my head! Of just jumping and falling into nothing!” Mike grunts, not removing his gaze from the water.

“Nothing?” His voice questions almost too quietly. Richie scoffs, the rocks under his feet shuffling with his pacing footsteps.

“ _Jack shit_! And I know _I_ don’t want to jump into nothingness, so I knew it had to be that _stupid idiot_ again. So I’m throwing on some random fucking clothes, practically shitting myself because suicide is playing over and over in my head.” Mike shut his eyes, hearing the word out loud for the first time. He’d only ever heard it in his head, the word echoing menacingly in his skull. Suddenly, he felt sick being so close to the edge, his vision going blurry. Gripping the stone ground behind him, he shifted so he couldn’t see the drop. Behind him, Richie nods, knowingly.

“Exactly. Don’t fucking think about it.” Mike turns to glare up at Richie, the bracelet heating around his wrist.

“What makes you think it’s _my thoughts_ in your head, Richie?!” He didn't stop to note how completely insane Richie sounded for having _someone else's_ thoughts in his head. Richie scoffs incredulously, turning away and grasping the curls on his head. Shaking his head, he paces softly.

“You can’t be this daft. You _cannot_ possibly-”

“Daft? That’s a weird word coming from your mouth.” Mike’s attempt at a joke falls flat as Richie freezes in his spot. Richie stops his pacing, spinning around to stare down at Mike, his expression blank. Crouching down, he rests his arms on his knees. Mike leans away, staring oddly at Richie. Richie’s eyes flicker to the ledge that Mike was sitting on before standing up.

“I can’t do this while you’re sitting there.” Richie takes a couple steps back, motioning for Mike to follow him. “Move. C’mere, Mikey Moose.” Mike’s face contorts at the nickname before he forces himself away from the ledge. Dusting off his jeans, he steps towards Richie, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the hoodie. Richie takes a moment just staring at Mike, as if studying his face, questioning something. Mike on a regular day would find himself very uncomfortable by the unwanted attention.

But something inside him made him search Richie’s face as well. The similarities between their features were enough to send him searching for any logical reason why they’d look _so_ similar but not be the least bit related. Or at least... No. Of course, there were small differences between the two, like the constant upturn of Rich’s lips that never left even when he was upset or the fact that Mike had enough freckles for the both of them and a birthmark hiding on the darkest part of his neck. But if Mike didn’t force out his curls every morning, Mike could probably pass as Richie and Richie as Mike.

If Richie could go one moment without a vulgar joke. Reaching out, Mike grabbed Richie’s glasses, placing them onto his own face. Trying for another joke, he blinked blindly behind the glasses.

“Do I look as dumb as you do with these on?” Richie snorted in good humor, resting his hands behind his head. “I’d tell you, but I’m about as blind as Troy’s mom when I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence. I don’t wanna know-Take them back.” Mike mumbled passing the glasses back. Richie’s laugh echoes off the Quarry as he grabs the glasses, placing them back onto the bridge of his nose. Pushing them farther onto his nose, he gives Mike a tired grin.

“I’m about to tell you the most batshit crazy thing you’d ever heard.” Mike frowned, letting his nose wrinkle up in disgust. “More batshit crazy than hearing you sleep with _Troy’s mom_?” Richie grins, holding his hands up in surrender.

“What can I say? Moms love me.” Mike scoffed in disgust, turning to dawdle in any direction other than Richie’s. Richie skipped to catch up to Mike, placing his hands in his pockets, as he wandered beside him. Glancing at Richie, Mike took in the troubled expression that held the kid’s face. Returning his gaze to the road ahead, he sighed through his nose.

“Dude, just tell me.” Mike mused, shaking his head. Reaching out, Richie let his arm rest across Mike’s shoulders, pulling them closer together. Mike could feel the cold chill of Richie’s arm on the back of his neck, forcing a quick chill down his spine.

“Michael Theodore Wheeler-”

“Ew-”

“You always ruin the fucking mood.” Mike rolled his eyes, glaring at Richie. “You could at least use my actual middle name.” Richie quirked his head thoughtfully, meeting Mike’s gaze. “Anthony?” Mike nodded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and the fact that _Richard Tozier_ of all people, not knowing was a disgrace. Releasing Mike from his grip, Richie moved to stand dramatically a couple feet away. Mike stopped to watch as Richie held his arms out carefully.

“Imagine if your last name was Tozier-” Mike frowned. “Is this your half-assed attempt at asking me to marry you?”

“You shit-Just shut up for one second!” Mike held up his hands defensively, shaking away the insult. The smile on his face was hard to miss, however, Richie trying to hide his own smile.

“I don’t know how to say what I’m failing at trying to say,” Richie admitted, casually. They continue walking, Richie now standing a full foot away as he fiddled with a stone he’d found on the ground. Mike pulled out his phone, unlocking it.

“Here-Text it to me and I’ll read it.” Richie scoffed, throwing the rock past Mike and into the water of the Quarry. “Oh, trust me, Mike-ard, I’ve tried.” Mike’s smile fell, sending Richie a confused glance. He drifted over to walk by his side, shutting off his phone.

“Is it seriously that big of a thing?” Richie nodded, sincerely, his grin falling into a hesitant smile. Returning his phone to his back pocket, Mike moved to block off Richie’s path. “You can say anything that comes to mind-no matter the outcome-but can’t say whatever is bothering you right now?” Shaking his head, Richie let his hands fall into the pockets of his jeans. Looking at Mike, he shrugged softly.

“It just feels like a shitload will be at stake if I say it.” Richie thought out loud, crossing one leg over the other. Mike shook his head.

“Like what?”

“Like, maybe you won’t want to be my friend anymore!” Richie spouted, Mike staring in disbelief. Richie fumbles to cover up what he’d just said with a crooked grin. “Uh-You know-if we even were friends to start with. I mean-who would want to be friends with a Trashmouth, right?”

“Just say it.” Mike blurts, staring blankly. Richie swallows, turning to walk in the opposite direction. Mike blocked off his path again, frowning. “Dude-say it!”

“Let’s try this some other night, Wheelbarrow. Troy’s mom’ll be looking for me-” Mike frowned, crossing his arms.

“She can wait! I wanna hear what you have to say.”

“Mike, c’mon-” Mike shifted to block Richie each time he tried to walk by. Richie took a step back, frowning softly.

“Why do you care, anyway?” Mike froze, allowing Richie enough time to get around him, placing his hands in pockets. Mike wet his lips, speed walking to keep up with Richie’s wider strides.

“Because, Rich, you _are_ my friend, whether you like it or not! And whatever you can’t say isn’t just going to change that.” Richie stopped with a sigh, lowering his gaze to avoid Mike’s. Mike huffed, his cheeks red with frustration, waiting for Richie to at least say something. When he felt too much silence had passed between them, his eyebrows furrowed to match his frown.

Richie cocked his head, kicking at the gravel with the toe of his sneakers. “Do you know a... Wentworth Tozier?” Mike opened his mouth to say no but fell short, his eyes narrowing. The tall man from his childhood flickered a bit behind his eyes before a full memory clip played. 

* * *

It was probably a weekday, Mike remembered getting home from school that day. He was torturing Nancy if he ever wasn’t as a child. He’d taken her phone and was hiding under his bed to poke nosily through the apps as she ran back and forth through the house screaming his name. There wasn’t anything really interesting on the phone besides a few pictures of some guy named Steve. Mike saved that name for later. He finally tired of using the phone when his mother’s voice rang through the house announcing a visitor.

Hurrying out from under the bed, Mike ran out into the hall just as Nancy exited her own room. Gasping dramatically, she glared at the 7-year-old. “Give me my phone!” Mike shrugged softly, tossing the phone to her. She just barely caught it, sending him the most deadly of teen death glares she’d ever given him. Grinning, he waved goodbye to the pre-teen, running off down the stairs. The hurried footsteps of his older sister thundered behind him like a wild troll from the outskirts of Woodpine Village. Before he knew it, the world around him was a forest. Running down a hill and making his way around some stray trees. Stumbling down the final inches of the hill, he ran into a tree trunk.

Or tall legs that felt like a tree. The forestry melted away around him, his knight’s armor fading away as he stared at the legs. He fell onto his butt but left no time to address the pain that shot through his entire back, jumping up and hiding behind them. He could hear his mother sigh in embarrassment and Nancy complaining about Mike being a little shit again. Karen scolded the use of language, probably for the Legs' sake. Looking up, Mike met the eyes of the man he was using as a hiding spot. Waving slightly, Mike grinned.

“Hi, I’m _Paladin Mike_ -”

“Just Michael-” Scowling at his mother, Mike shook his head. “Mike! _Paladin Mike_.” Returning his gaze to the guest, he nodded proudly. “I’m the Dungeon Master and Nancy was a Troll. Troll Nancy!” Nancy swatted at the boy, Karen taking Nancy by the arm and pulling her into the kitchen. With the two meddlesome females gone, Mike finally had social freedom. He moved to stand in front of Legs, placing his hands on his hips.

“Mom says I have to be polite especially when guests come around because they could get the wrong idea, but what the heck is the wrong idea, anyway?” He asked the man. Legs crouched down, giving Mike a confused grin.

“The wrong idea?” Mike nodded, exasperated, holding his arms out. “Right?! I think she’s just scared they won’t understand me.” Legs nodded, understandingly. His hand reached up to fix his hat, the curls underneath shifting messily.

“My mom doesn’t understand me either. Calls me the black sheep.” Mike smiled. “Like a code name. _Code Name Black Sheep_! That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“You can be _The_ _Black Sheep_ and I’ll be _Paladin Mike_ -” Slapping a hand against his forehead, Mike huffed. “I messed up again.” He exclaimed, shaking his head. Shaking his head, The Black Sheep snickered, pulling Mike’s hand from his face.

“What’s the problem, Schmeichel?” Mike wrinkled his face at the nickname. Without a second thought, he brushed it away, gesturing into the kitchen.

“Mom says I have to shake your hand and ask what your name is before making friends.” Holding out his hand, he combs away his bangs with the other hand. “I’m Mike-Michael, what’s your name?” He stumbled, shaking his head to himself. The Black Sheep nods, making a small noise of realization. Grabbing Mike’s smaller hand in his, he grins, shaking it.

“Hello, Mike-Michael, I’m Wentworth. You can call me your... Uncle Went.”

* * *

Shaking his head, Mike looked at Richie. “Uncle Went? You’re related to _Uncle Went_?” Mike questioned in disbelief. Richie snorted at the name, shaking his head.

“ _Uncle Went_? For Chrissakes-He’s my dad.” Mike stood in silence for a moment before quirking his head.

“So we’re cousins?” Richie rolled his eyes, reaching up and taking off his glasses. “Maybe I can say this better if I can’t see you.”

“Did your mom like... Act like she saw _me_ walking through the door whenever he came around?” Mike nodded almost immediately, frowning in annoyance.

“Yeah! Like she’d complain about him coming around so much. She’d say he was mucking shit up by talking to me. _Mucking shit up_ , what does that even mean?” He grumbled the last sentence under his breath, crossing his arms. Richie frowned, squinting.

“Anything recent?”

“I haven’t seen him for 7 years...” Richie’s face smoothed out, nodding as if finding the next piece to a puzzle. “ _Uncle Went-”_

“Shut up, he told me to call him my Uncle Went.”

Richie made a small noise of playful agreement, motioning for Mike to walk with him. Mike kept a careful hand on Richie’s shoulder knowing how blind he was without his glasses. “He told me 6 years ago that I had a... Twin out in the world somewhere.” Not seeing Mike’s reaction burrowed a hole of anxiety into Richie, his hands flying to place the bifocals back onto his face. Sending Mike a glance, he swallowed at the blank thoughtful stare Mike was giving the ground. “He-uh-didn’t tell me where until about a year ago.” Mike’s voice was just as quiet as before when he spoke.

“And... Where are they?” Richie sniffed, pressing his fingers against the frame of his glasses.

“Hawkins, Indiana.” Mike was taking the information better than Richie had originally thought, his gaze curious as he looked over at Richie. “So I’m your twin?”

“We’re pees of the same pod. Emerging from the same vagina-”

“God, can you ever-just-not say stuff like that?!”

Richie stifled a laugh, brushing a curl out of his eyes. “It’s a defense mechanism.” He explained. Mike heaved a sigh but decided to try his best to keep it from bothering him if it helped Richie. His twin. They were twins. Sure, he was a bit hesitant to admit that he thought it could be a possibility at the sleepover the other night, but it always hovered at the back of his head. After Dustin brought it up, the first day, Mike wondered if it might be true. He tried to tell himself that if he had a twin, his family would tell him. Only to have his own twin have to tell him himself.

Well, that’s cleared up, but there’s another question. Was he was a born Wheeler or a born Tozier? Or was he was neither at all?

Maybe their original parents didn’t want them in the first place. Two pale curly haired babies, would Mike keep himself? Adoption was never the answer, for any kid. It was _torture_. Mike felt lied to. By Karen and Ted, and whoever his actual parents were. Along with an ever hanging cloud of self-doubt and feeling like he didn’t belong with the family he was ‘given’, he was to learn that his Twin was hiding out in Derry, Maine, clueless to his own relation to a geeky kid in Hawkins, Indiana. His stomach lurched with the information stewing in his brain. He knew he looked bad by the concerned but disgusted stare he was getting from Richie.

Maybe he wasn’t taking the information all that well.

“Uh, Mike? You okay?” Mike’s expression was blank aside from the obvious palling that was visible even in the lack of light.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” He mumbled just as his stomach gurgled. Running for a bush in the distance, the bile left his mouth before he could even get behind the foliage. Thankfully, the contents of his stomach made it _into_ the bush. Gripping his knees, Mike heaved another round, Richie calling in disgust a couple feet away. There wasn’t much in his stomach to release, but his stomach continued to cinch, turning over once more with the swirling of his brain. Falling to his knees, Mike panted, his throat raw from the stomach acid.

Richie found his way over, pressing his nostrils together with the bridge of his glasses. His voice came out forced and nasally as he searched Mike for any trace of the bile on his clothing.

“You finished coughing up yesterday’s ham sandwich or do we need an ultrasound too?” Mike wanted to laugh, but the action came out as a tired huff. He reached up to wipe his mouth with the cuff of his jacket, stopping when Richie shrieked in horror. “DON’T-Do not put that shit on your clothes!” Pulling an old but strangely unused napkin out of his pocket, he threw it at Mike. “Here! Use that!” Mike sent Richie a glare from over his shoulder but took the napkin gratefully. Wiping the sick away, he sighed as his stomach finally came to a rest.

As Mike struggled to climb to his feet, Richie leaned to peer into the bush. Calling out, he backed away from the bush, shaking his head. Just the sight of the orange mixture made him gag. Mike grabbed Richie’s arm, his legs wobbly underneath him.

His voice was hoarse as he tried to speak. “Think you can...” He burps lightly and Richie almost dies from just the smell itself. “Can you walk me home?” He questioned, pathetically. Richie resorted to keeping his glasses pressed to his nose, not risking getting another whiff of Mike’s breath. Using the arm Mike was gripping, Richie wrapped it around him, taking Mike’s arm and throwing it over his shoulder. They stop to grab his jacket on the way, but Richie makes it known he was _very_ offended.

“You hate being my twin _so badly_ , you throw up within the first 2 minutes of knowing.” Shaking his head, he re-situated Mike. “I mean, cool, but fucking _ew_.” Blinking tiredly, Mike shook his head.

“Stress-” A choked burp leaves his system and Richie nearly jumps out of his skin. “Stress? Stress-what, stress _vomiting_?” Mike nodded, giving Richie a watery smile. A subtle pat on Richie’s shoulder and he frowns.

“This is _disgustin’_! Ya owe me big time, _Michaelmore_. I expect my payment by this time next week or I’m rippin’ up the contract.” Richie’s accents returned, this one being a fairly natural sounding Boston accent.

“What contract?”

“The twin contract, we’re over. Finite!”

“Shut up,”


	6. frustration (author's interruption)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> n.  
> the feeling of being upset or annoyed, especially because of inability to change or achieve something

_Chapter 6 probably won't be posted today, as I kept being(and still continue to be) interrupted, but I'll try and see what I can do about posting it within the next few days. Thanks in advance!_


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